


Erato

by Ulliva



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-05-07 10:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14669094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulliva/pseuds/Ulliva
Summary: Somewhere in New York City, early '00s."[Erato] with both hands plaits wreaths of roses."(Ancient Greek: Ἐρατώ) was named Muse of erotic poetry and mime, and represented with a lyre. Her name means "lovely" or "beloved" from the Greek word eratos.Some fluff, some angst, a lot of memories. Rated explicit for smut.





	1. Erato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in New York City, early '00s.
> 
> "[Erato] with both hands plaits wreaths of roses."  
> (Ancient Greek: Ἐρατώ) was named Muse of erotic poetry and mime, and represented with a lyre. Her name means "lovely" or "beloved" from the Greek word eratos.
> 
> Some fluff, some angst, a lot of memories. Rated explicit for smut.

You make people buy your book first. It sounded counterintuitive. I had only a handful of these events planned in the coming weeks, and the idea was to let it grow organically after that. It was a place to start, my publisher had assured me. It doesn’t matter if only a dozen people show up, because these are the people that matter. They’re book people, and they will inform their book friends. Whatever that meant. The small bookshop was half full and there was a comfortable buzz. I had stopped counting after a dozen and decided that everyone that came in afterward was a victory. There was no entry fee, so the store’s policy was to guilt trip everyone who attended into buying the book first; it would be too easy to slip out without making a purchase once the reading was over.

People had brought friends, were drinking coffee. I hadn’t realized this was a thing now. The front of the store was a coffee house. At first, I thought I had come to the wrong place, but the owner slash barista confirmed she had been expecting me. I sat at a makeshift desk in front of an Ikea bookcase that exclusively held copies of my book. They had dragged a table—that looked second hand at best—towards the back of the store. I took my time signing every book.

'Tanya, you said?'

The lady in front of me nodded. Her face was flushed. She was holding another copy.

'It’s for my niece though: Amy,' she enunciated. As if there was a different way to spell Amy. I wrote a semi-deep quote on the title page and finished the message with ‘love’. None of that ’best wishes’ bullshit. My signature got bigger and swirlier by the book.

'Would you like me to sign your copy too?' I already reached out my hand. The middle-aged woman in front of me seemed startled, but shoved the book in my direction on the table. 'I have time,' I assured her.

Absentmindedly, I ran my thumb over my name on the cover. My mother had always insisted it was a name that begged to be known, or it would be wasted. It still seemed surreal to see it, feel it, embossed on my own book. It was a miracle I had ever finished it, honestly. I hoped these people enjoyed open endings. As I wrote out a heartfelt note in Tanya’s copy, I wondered what had possessed her to buy two copies of a book by an unknown author, and then give one away to a loved one. I knew I always judged friends who gifted me shit books.

People were starting to sit down. A guy with a brown cardboard coffee cup had set the tone, settling in the second row. As if the room wasn’t stuffy enough without a hot beverage. The front row remained empty. Granted, the front row consisted of five chairs. I rummaged through my backpack in search of my notes. I found them at the bottom, smashed down under the plastic bag that contained my leftovers from lunch. I pulled them out from underneath and attempted to flatten them with my forearm. How embarrassing. Were people looking? Or did this add to the charm of the mysterious einzelgänger writer?

The next book slid in my direction on the desk, a large hand covering the front. The handmade it look insignificant, like I had written a tacky airport novel, small enough to be shoved into a purse in case the person sitting next to you started to read along. I let my eyes trail up the long arm, over the shoulder and took in the face. A smile I would recognize from miles away beamed at me.

'Oliver,' he simply stated.

The walls came tumbling down. I wondered if this is what people meant when they said their life flashed before their eyes. My ears rang, and a dull headache made its way up from the back of my skull.

'Hi.'

It was all I managed. I took the book from him and opened it, staring at the off-white page with my title on it. The Muse, the page screamed at me. I clicked my pen. There was nothing to add. Had I picked a bad title? It suddenly seemed so cheesy. I opened my mouth to speak when nothing came from him, but closed it again when Stephanie, the owner of the store, made her way to the front of the assembly. Oliver left his book with me and quickly sat down in the middle of the first row of chairs. He raised his eyebrows and shoulders at me in an excited, childlike way.

'Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for taking your time to come down here on this lovely summer evening,' she started. The last two people standing took their seats. 'I’ll not waste your time—let’s be honest, we all want to go out for a drink in the sun after this!' It elicited a general chuckle. I found it a little rude. 'I hereby give the floor to Mr. Perlman, who’s here to share his wonderful debut novel with us.'

With a simple gesture, she made me lift from my chair. Applauding, she took a seat next to Oliver. Oliver, it suddenly hit me.

I started my reading with a deafening ‘Ehm’, threw in a dozen or so in the middle and ended with a shrug. The applause pattered due to the small crowd, and somehow Oliver’s clapping was the loudest. Maybe it was just the fact that he was sitting closest, or that his hands were the largest in the room, or in the tristate area. Maybe it was just my dumb brain imagining things.

As predicted, the store emptied right after I had finished. A handful of people hung back; they knew the owner. They attempted to include me in their conversation a few times, but my ears were ringing too loudly to hear their compliments. I retreated on the pretense of having to clear my notes from my little table.

I felt him hover. When I pretended not to notice him standing behind me, Oliver placed a hand on my shoulder.

'Congratulations.'

'Thanks.' I hoped my body exuded my gratitude. For that one word of praise, for him being there, for existing. Apparently it didn’t. He quickly removed his hand.

'Really,' he insisted. 'I was so proud when I heard. I had to come. I hope you don’t mind I just barged in like that.' There was laughter in his voice. I had nothing to offer in reply. 'I’m in New York for the summer, teaching,' he continued.

Clearly my body language was expressing the exact opposite of what I meant. I had made him feel unwelcome. He was basically apologizing for coming. I smiled and handed him his book—my book—which he’d left on the table. He held it by his side, as he had nowhere to put it. He’d arrived in a black T-shirt and grey slacks. Had he just come here on a whim? The lack of jacket could indicate he hadn’t counted on being outside after sunset. Maybe he had changed out of his suit after teaching. Showered, put on something more casual. I decided it was nicer to imagine him writing the appointment in his calendar weeks ago. Telling people ‘Thursday? No, I have plans on Thursday.’ when they’d asked him.

I cleared my throat and smiled. Nodding now, I showed him I believed him. He seemed satisfied. When I didn’t take initiative quickly enough, he brought the hand holding my book to his chest and cocked his head slightly. A question.

'Wanna get out of here?'

I laughed. He meant it as a cliché, but it was completely sincere at the same time. Only Oliver could pull off a line like that, che muvi star. I swung my backpack over my shoulder and nodded again.

I interrupted Stephanie’s conversation with a hand on her shoulder. It had seemed so casual when Oliver did it, I could pull it off too. I thanked her, she thanked me. I told her I’d be in touch, shook two more hands, and then we were outside. I hadn’t realized exactly how hot it had been in the little store until the soft breeze hit me and I became aware that the small of my back was wet, my shirt clinging to it. You could always count on the city’s steel and glass canyons to produce some wind. A blessing in summer, a curse in winter. The remaining heat from the day radiated upwards from the pavement. We turned left from the store and started walking. Oliver to my right, me virtually tucked under his shoulder. We bumped shoulders a couple of times as we walked.

'You’re tall,' was the first thing that came up to me.

Oliver laughed.

'You knew that.'

I did know that. It was hard to remember though. His height had startled me, because in my memories we were the same size. We always saw eye to eye. We’d spent a lot of that summer horizontally.

I no longer thought about Oliver every day. It had been close to twenty years after all. Two decades, my mind offered as a synonym. It made me feel ancient so I discarded the thought. I had gone over all our conversations so many times. I had played through every possible version of them. In my mind, I had already told him all that had remained unsaid. I had managed to find some satisfaction in my esprit de l’escalier. I had exhausted all afterwit, couldn’t imagine what was left to tell him. So I said nothing, and we walked in silence. Oliver was okay with that.

Oliver seemed to have an idea of where we were going. I didn’t, so I followed. Every time we crossed a street to the next block, he turned his face towards the setting sun. It made his skin glow. He closed his eyes for a few beats every time, which was probably not advisable in the middle of the road. It seemed like a secret pleasure only he knew of. It didn’t look like he was aware of his habit. It’d always appeared like he attracted the light wherever he went, so it was only natural that the light was attracted to him, too. I joined him, two heads turning every time the sun peeked out between two buildings.

We reached a bar on a corner. It was like they had amassed all the chairs and tables they could find. A heap of bare arms and legs collected on the furniture, a few dozen people trying to catch the last rays of sun. We were way ahead of them. Oliver pulled out a rickety table and stepped behind it. He found us two chairs and sat down. I dropped my backpack between the chairs and sat down as well. Oliver ordered us two glasses of white wine and a separate glass with just ice cubes. He dug two out with his fingers and dropped them in my glass before doing the same for himself. I smiled at him.

'What?'

'Nothing,' I sighed. 'Waiting for my personality to arrive.'

He laughed, flashing me his teeth. The only thing reminding me that he wasn’t in his twenties was the streak of silver in his hair. It blended in perfectly with the blond. If you had seen him every day for the past ten years, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it. It reminded me of when I’d found photos of my father teaching me how to walk. His beard had been short and dark, and his polo shirt remarkably more loose fitting. I had wondered when he had gotten old, because I had clearly missed it. Oliver didn’t look old. The thought arose that, if I didn’t see him for another two decades, he might grow old without my knowing, and I might not recognize him as quickly as I had today. I swallowed the lump in my throat and chased it down with two big gulps of white wine. The one thing his grey hairs did remind me of, was that I wasn’t seventeen anymore.

After my second glass, I noticed my lips were moving and Oliver was watching them. He laughed every now and then. I heard myself tell him about my writing debut, about the past year, the past five, fifteen, twenty years. About the summer he visited and everyone that came before and after him. About before him, which was strange to remember. Oliver told me everything, about his summer seminar, the prestigious teaching chair he’d earned. Earned, not received. I saw the glint in his eyes when he talked about his boys—almost men by now. His ‘don’t mention the war’ was ‘don’t mention the wife’. I didn’t, he didn’t. I did not talk down on her and he did not talk her up. This wasn’t about her; it was about us.

Oliver talked. Something about a student in one of his recent classes. How bright she was, and how he enjoyed it when she questioned him. That would be something he’d enjoy. He absentmindedly rolled his short sleeves up. Flipped them once, twice, until the hem was hidden in the fold. That inch of skin he gained was pale and glistening. I watched the spot where his shoulder curved into his arm, and where his pink skin faded into a golden tan. I felt incompetent, wearing a similar black shirt. It had taken me a while to decide what to wear for the book event. I had landed on a simple black T-shirt. It was clean, not faded from the sun or laundry yet. The decisive argument had been that it was still in its plastic Fruit of the Loom bag, which meant I didn’t have to iron anything else. My shirt looked different from Oliver’s though. It hung loosely on my frame, the wide sleeves jutting out to the side, an unfortunate side effect of wearing a shirt so new and crisp. I’d never had issues with how my body looked. I was skinny, but not so tall that it became lanky. My legs carried me, my hands and arms worked. My back ached sometimes, but I couldn’t complain. My body matched my head and my personality. I would never be able to pull off that buff look. It had taken me a while to accept that, but now I found myself to have a boyish charm, even so close to forty.

I drank from my empty glass for the fourth time. The ice cubes had almost completely melted, and with each sip the hint of wine that was left watered down. Oliver ordered me another one. He fell silent, thumbing the book on the little table in front of him. The matte cover already had a water ring on it from when he had accidentally put the glass of ice on top of it a moment ago. It didn’t matter, it was his.

'I’ve been looking out for this one,' he remarked. He ran a finger over my name, as I had done earlier. I don’t know how, but I sensed he would have been just as content if I called it a night and left him alone with the book.

'What do you mean?'

'At bookstores, I mean.'

I knew what he meant. I’d been doing the same thing. Every time I entered a bookstore with a philosophy section, I would check the shelves for his name. I had only caught myself in this habit after maybe the fourth or fifth time. It first registered when I felt disappointed to find I had already surpassed the first letters of his last name. When I did find a copy of one of his books, I would take it out, read his name a couple of times. Read the back cover. Flip through it, read his author’s notes. I’d stand there long enough for someone to notice me. Look at me, so enthralled with this philosophical work. If someone made eye contact I would smile. You know nothing about what I’m holding. This is him. I would say goodbye by putting the book back on the shelf and running a finger over the back before moving on. It had delighted me to realize that, when my book entered stores, we would be together in a way. This was for him.

'You didn’t even know I wrote a book,' I said. 'You didn’t even know I write.'

My wine arrived. Oliver inserted two fingers into the soda glass and slipped the last three ice cubes out. He held them in his palm before he let them slide into my glass by way of his wrist. Water ran down to his elbow.

'Well, I couldn’t find any CD’s with your name on them so that was my second guess,' he joked. Was it a joke? The thought of him tapping through stacks of classical CD’s in search for me made me feel a little guilty. I should have composed a piece years ago.

'You can find me in two sections now,' I said in a way of apology. 'I translated it into Italian myself.'

'Of course you did.'

He smiled at me and nudged me with his elbow. He acted as if out of everyone in this world, he was still the best judge of my character. As if the last twenty years hadn’t passed at all, or he had been there for all of them. He was probably right. I had people in my life right now that were close to me. There were people in multiple cities that I had opened up to. They knew I liked salted butter on warm bread, and what side of the bed I slept on. Some knew about the movies I had cried to, or the politicians I fundamentally disagreed with. Maybe half a dozen people walking around with all kinds of secrets I had divided among them. They were just kernels compared to what I’d shared with Oliver. He had the whole wheat field, all of the countryside and the dirt roads that ran through it. What’s one kernel compared to that, Oliver?

Suddenly, Oliver kissed my temple. I couldn’t say it was out of nowhere, because it fit perfectly in the sentiment of the night. His lips caught half skin, half curl. The hair stuck to his lips for a fraction of a second when he pulled back. Everything was in that gesture. I’ve missed you. I’m happy to see you. I’m proud of you. Satisfied with who you’ve become and content to find that you’re still you. My lips remember everything. I remember everything. He left his arm draped on my chair. I instinctively tucked the loose curl behind my ear. An invitation. He accepted, leaning in, this time caressing my temple and cheekbone with the tip of his nose. He rested his forehead in my hair, the bridge of his nose nestled under my eyebrow. I closed my eyes and turned my face into his, cheek to cheek. His skin distinctly smelled of him. When we slept in our bed in Italy, I would swap my pillow with his and bury my face in it, inhaling his scent until my sinuses started to sting. It was different from the smell of his trunks, or the shirt he’d left me; I couldn’t hold on to the smell of his hair, his cheeks, his neck. He had taken it with him when he left.

'Elio,' I muttered.

He sighed and nodded his head from side to side against mine before sitting back. I was drunk. It was almost completely dark now. Thunder rumbled behind me. It sounded far away, and there had been no lightning. Oliver looked up, distracted now. I watched as he examined the sky, lips parted. Put your head back on my shoulder, Oliver. If it rains, we’ll get wet. Thunder again, closer this time. It clattered against the buildings in front of us. Oliver decided it was time to leave. He put two bills under the ashtray on our table and took a big gulp of my wine, then handed me the glass. I downed it. He took my backpack and held the chair out so I could slide through. I stumbled. He raised his hand, and in the same motion indicated to the waitress that he’d left the money on the table. As his hand came down, he grabbed mine and started walking.

'Where are you staying?'

I scratched the back of my head, trying to orient myself.

'Never mind, I’m only a few blocks away,' he decided for me.

'We could get a cab,' I suggested.

Fat, lukewarm drops started to hit the pavement. Oliver sped up. For every step he took, I needed one and a half. Every half a block I had to pull a short sprint to catch up. By the time it was really raining, it had become impossible to hail a cab. I was out of breath, but my legs felt light because of the wine. I could run for miles. I planted my foot in the middle of a puddle and soaked Oliver’s woven loafers. I snorted, stumbled and nearly fell. Oliver dragged me up. A few blocks turned out to be more like fifteen.

Oliver slowed down. We’d arrived at his hotel. He ushered me into the lobby and let go of my hand. His whole demeanor changed. His relaxed shoulders straightened and his chin pointed up. He grew another couple of inches. Smoothing a hand over his wet hair, he nodded at the receptionist. They probably knew him as Professor here. This was a whole side of his life—a whole life—that I wasn’t part of. I wondered if he was approachable as a professor. Did he wear a suit to class? Or did he show up in a pink sweater and joke that his wife had bought it for him? I wondered if his students gushed over him, if there had been a waiting list for his summer seminars. If students had signed up in the hopes of getting closer to him, to enjoy a moment in his light. Did he scold students for talking in his lectures? Or did he invite them to sit down after class to have a drink and listen to their insights? The way he held himself in the lobby was almost comical. His pants clung to the front of his thighs and his shoes squelched into the thick carpet. I tagged along as he got into the elevator.

The hotel was nice enough. I had missed the name out front. It had probably been a grand hotel back in the day. Everything was spotless and well-maintained, but outdated. The colors and patterns screamed eighties, maybe early nineties. Oliver looked at his shoes and wiggled his toes inside. He shook his head as he stepped out of the elevator. We walked down a hallway. His room was at the end.

There were entirely too many curtains in the room. Apart from the windows, there were also heavy silk curtains lining the bed, the couch, and the TV cabinet. Oliver started cleaning up around the room, moving piles of books around and stacking them on top of each other. He apologized twice. It reminded me of my father’s office. There were papers scattered on the bed. He piled them up and tossed them on the floor. I don’t know what I had expected coming up here. Making out in the elevator, Oliver throwing me on his bed as soon as we closed the door, not a care about his students’ research papers getting destroyed in the process? A version of that, but definitely not this. I wiped the back of my neck. A steady drip from my hair ran into the back of my shirt.

'Sorry, it’s- sit, sit,' Oliver ordered. He gestured towards the couch. He did a double take and stopped what he was doing. 'Are you okay?'

I nodded and went to drop myself on the couch. Oliver looked genuinely concerned now. There was no spark in his eyes that indicated he would be throwing me on his now empty bed anytime soon. This was sexless, fatherly concern. It annoyed me.

'I’ve been caught out in the rain before, Oliver. I can take care of myself by now,' I heard myself say. I don’t need you to care for me. A lie I added in my head only. I realized too late that that sounded like an accusation. He shook it off.

'Still, you’re shivering,' he insisted.

I was shivering. My jaw hurt and my nose was cold. I was sure my toes had gone all pruny in my shoes. I wiped away a drop of rain that seeped through my eyebrow.

'You need to get out of those clothes, take a hot shower,' he decided for me. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. I was disappointed at the lack of innuendo in his tone. I needed to get out of my wet clothes for my own benefit, not his.

He showed me into the bathroom. The house style continued in there. It was big and clean, but the decoration was tasteless and the bathtub and toilet bowl had the color of overcooked steak. He left the room and closed the door behind me without much hesitation. Were we really just hiding from the rain? Was I expected to leave with a change of clothes and an umbrella from the front desk? It had been the lady at the front desk that had broken the spell by using his last name, dragging him back into this century, and away from me. I should have insisted on going to my hotel.

I undressed and put my pants over a towel rack. I sat down on the toilet to pee. It seemed like the safer option. My feet were pale and wrinkly. I rested my elbows on my knees and propped my head up in my hands. It was spinning. It could have been the wine on an empty stomach, but I suspected Oliver had a hand in it too. Beyond basically pouring the wine into me. I hadn’t dared to hope I’d end up in his hotel room, but now that I was here, I was disappointed. I couldn’t believe he had no other motive. He had sought me out. I hadn’t invited him. He’d taken me out for drinks after, not the other way around. Now I was stark naked and comfortably buzzed in his bathroom. And he was next door… tidying up? It reminded me of our summer. How I would lie awake at night, listening to Oliver in his room, praying he would come into mine, and slip under my sheets without a word. It had taken me weeks to take the first step. I got up, flushed the toilet and ran a bath. I caught myself in the mirror. I didn’t have weeks. If I left here without so much as a kiss, I knew I would never see him again. All those what-ifs would be laid to rest as soon as the door to his hotel room closed behind me. For a moment I wondered if that was the better option, for my own sanity. It had taken years before thinking about Oliver stopped feeling like a kick in the gut. And when I felt it didn’t hurt as bad anymore, realizing he was fading hurt even worse. A private pain, like stubbing your little toe and having no bruise to show for it the next day. Every once in a while this incapacitating, sinking feeling would creep up on me out of nowhere. After all this time, the wounds weren’t raw anymore, but scars are always more sensitive than normal skin. I scratched my arm. I still had goosebumps all over. My sanity would have to wait.

I swung the bathroom door open. Oliver looked up. He stood in the middle of the room, reading the second or third page of a paper that was stapled at the top left corner. He looked startled, but didn’t say anything. I took two large steps to close the distance between us. Still no comment on me being naked in his room. I took it as a good sign. I tugged his shirt out of his pants. He held his arms to the side, as if it didn’t count if he wasn’t touching me.

'You need to get out of those clothes,' I explained.

Oliver heard me repeating his words back to him and tossed the paper to the side, finally allowing me to pull his shirt over his head. He ran a hand over his mop of wet hair, flattening it against his head once more. He held my gaze. His eyes questioned me. We’re not… Are we? I unbuttoned his pants but made a point not to let my fingers slip under his waistband, as much as I wanted to feel his skin. Not yet. He stepped out of his loafers and I dropped his pants. He pulled his boxer shorts down, confident I wouldn’t break eye contact just to sneak a peek. I didn’t. Instead, I turned around and headed back for the bathroom. It was my turn to be confident he would follow. I left the door wide open. I stepped into the tub, pausing after I put my left foot down. The hot water burned my skin. When I decided it wasn’t uncomfortable, I lifted myself in and sat down slowly. There were only four inches of water in the tub. I stretched my legs out. My toes stuck out of the water. I could hear Oliver rummaging around in the room. Just as I started to worry he had gone back to his work, he came into the bathroom.

'My towel,' he muttered as an explanation for his delay.

I pulled my legs in and wrapped my arms around them, making space. He stepped in carefully and leaned back against the other end of the tub. The water level rose past my kidneys now. I shivered.

'Are you comfortable?'

I nodded. He inevitably took up two thirds of the bath.

'Come here.'

He took the back of one ankle and brought it up on the edge of the tub, next to him. I put my other foot up too and crossed my legs. It was definitely more comfortable. With my legs up, I slid down, resting the back of my head on the curved rim behind me. Oliver mirrored me and stretched his legs out on either side of me. He placed a hand on my shin. At first, just to steady himself, but then his thumb started tracing small circles. The hair on my leg coiled into one strand. I turned off the water.

'Nice farmer’s tan,' I taunted. Oliver’s arms were tanned and strewn with freckles. I could imagine the blond hairs on the back of his neck. The rest of his body was pale, almost pink.

'Look who’s talking. I thought you had Italian blood, Noccioletto?'

Oliver seemed very pleased with himself. How had he remembered that? My Italian blood meant I never got a sunburn. Not much else happened. I had some freckles on the bridge of my nose that would return every summer, but apart from those, the pigments in my skin seemed to be mostly dormant. I could remember one year though, I must have been around eight. I had spent the better part of the summer at the beach as a heat wave passed through Italy. One night before dinner, Mafalda had used the garden hose to rinse the sand off me before I sat down at the table. I had gotten so brown she told me I reminded her of a fresh jar of Nutella. It became my pet name for a few days. I was glad that one didn’t stick. It had been my mother who had taken Nutella and turned it into Noccioletto—a little hazelnut bonbon. That one was popular until well into my teens. I couldn’t remember anyone using it around Oliver, but apparently they had. It made me feel precious.

We both laughed. The sound echoed against the bathroom mirror. I closed my eyes. It wasn’t the wine, or Italy, or that one summer. It was this, being completely content. There was no yesterday or the day before or tomorrow, or even an hour from now. If this was all we had, this would do. Oliver let his hand trail down my leg and held my foot, his thumb pressing into the ball.

'You warming up?'

I nodded without opening my eyes. I heard Oliver sigh. Maybe he was happy, too. I liked to think that he was.

Without warning, he lifted both of my feet and planted them firmly on his chest, just below his collarbone. I opened one eye. He had his head slightly cocked to one side, checking if this was okay with me. I closed my eyes again and curled my toes against his skin in response. Oliver was warming up too. He ran the palms of his hands from my toes all the way up to my knees and back. I noticed him pause and run a thumb over a scar on my right knee. I knew it turned a slightly purple hue when I got cold. My mother always said people with unscathed knees and chins didn’t have a proper childhood. My knees had kissed gravel quite a few times and I could remember needing a couple stitches in my chin after crashing my bike once. Oliver’s fingers wrapped around my legs, his index fingers pressing into the backs of my knees. There was something intensely intimate about having him touch me there. More intimate than sharing a bathtub.

He parted my knees and pulled my legs towards him, putting my feet down on either side of his thighs. I sat in between his legs and he in between mine. I felt a little exposed. His hands stayed under water and even though the water was perfectly clear, it seemed to have the same effect as a sheet would; Oliver felt free to explore. His hands slid down the insides of my thighs. It wasn’t a light touch either, his grasp getting tighter with every inch of skin he found. He eventually rested his hands on my hips, his thumbs digging into the crease where my legs met my torso. I could feel him hover, his weight on my hips as if he was a personal trainer, holding me down so I could give him fifty crunches. That was an assumption; I’d never set foot in a gym.

I opened my eyes and leaned in. I paused in front of his face, close enough to feel his breath on my lips, but just out of reach. He chuckled but didn’t budge. He had come halfway, it was my turn now. I titled my chin up just enough so that my lips brushed his. Oliver smiled. Was it okay for me to kiss with my eyes open? It felt so juvenile and sneaky, almost like I was breaking his trust. I couldn’t get myself to close them though. I found his lips again, placing a real kiss on them this time. A cartoonish smack echoed off the tiles. Another one. Smack. It was like a secret language, lips parting at the same time. His tongue found mine. His fingers dug into my hips, screaming, ‘mine, mine, all mine’. I found myself arching into his touch. It was almost embarrassing how fast he got me hard.

With a sigh, I pulled back a little and watched his face up close. He was blurry, and with his hair wet, I watched the years fall off him.

'Wanna get out of here?'

I over-enunciated, something I rarely did. Oliver heard his own words and laughed. He slowly got up and stepped out of the tub. I sat there and watched him. It reminded me of seeing Michelangelo’s David in Florence for the first time. He demanded the room to look up at him. Oliver reached a hand down.

'So let’s get out of here. And wipe that dumb look off your face.'

I closed my mouth and let him tug me out of the bath. He tossed me a towel and grabbed his own, rubbing it back and forth over his head. He opened the door, a current of fresh air entering the stuffy bathroom. He left me there. I toweled myself dry.

When I entered the bedroom again, Oliver was sitting at the foot of the bed, carefully drying his feet. The television was on. He glanced up, but didn’t give me the attention I desired from him. I would have to demand it like he had. I walked up to him and stopped only when my shins hit the bed. Standing between his legs, he had to lean back to look up at me, like I had done. His gaze had something of a glare. When I dropped to my knees in front of him, I noticed him flinch. It was very fresh of me. I draped my arms over his legs and touched him where he had touched me, leaving my fingers to caress his hips. I kissed the insides of his thighs and nuzzled my cheek against his skin. I love you here, Oliver. Oliver let out a shaky breath. I knew he was looking at me now. I was happy to find the bathwater had only rid him of the smell of rain. He still smelled like Oliver. I kissed him, all of him, and felt him twitch under my lips. Oliver cussed under his breath. It made me smile. I ran the tip of my tongue up his cock in a featherlight motion, then again, this time pressing my tongue flat. He hissed. Too harsh? I glanced at his face. Oliver had his lip curled up in a grimace. It would read disgust, but I knew better.

I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock and my fingers below it. He was perfectly hard in my hand. I sucked him slowly, taking more of him in my mouth every time I went down, my fingers making up for what I couldn’t swallow. Oliver let his head drop back. It delighted me to find I could still do this to him, I still knew how to touch him. Often, when I remembered something, it grew better and more beautiful in my head over time. This hadn’t. I felt his hand slide down my hair, his fingers counting the vertebrae on the back of my neck. They then knotted into my curls. His wrist stiffened, holding me in place as his body seemed to get the better of him. His hips rolled up, fucking my mouth, while his fingers maintained a softness. They touched every curl separately. I knew all of them. I had started cutting my own hair in my early twenties. I hated having to pay for someone to mess it up and then waiting two weeks for it to grow back to how I liked it. No one knew how to cut curls. So I cut them myself, one by one, a fraction of an inch every time I had scissors in my bathroom.

Suddenly he was pulling me off of him, and up.

'Up, up, up,' he muttered. He lifted me into his lap with surprisingly little effort. He looked at me in a ‘What do I do with you?’ kind of way, running his hands up and down my thighs, over my stomach and up my chest. I watched him make up his mind. He ran his thumb over my lips and fed me his index and middle finger. I opened my mouth and let him put the length of his digits on my tongue. His own jaw fell slack as he watched. I closed my mouth again and sucked his fingers. I closed my eyes too. I knew he was watching. His fingers left my mouth. His other hand kneaded my thigh, and then my buttock. One wet finger teased me. I was impatient. It was one of my vices that came out in this type of situation and that had gotten me in trouble before.

We were on our second decade of foreplay in my mind. One finger didn’t cut it. I reached back and wrapped a hand around Oliver’s cock again. I made my intentions very clear. His finger left me. He pressed another finger up into me, curling both of them towards himself. I moaned. It was like he remembered everything. Like we’d made love yesterday, or even this morning. It reminded me of how he would take me as we woke up together in Italy and, when he went into the village to talk to his translator, I would hang out in bed until he came back before lunch and had me again. And then at the table he would slip his foot out of his espadrille, place it on mine as if to say, ‘Later, again’.

Oliver looked smug now. I hated it. His chin went up for a fraction of a second. Ask me. He was going to make me explain what I wanted from him. I wasn’t going to. I rode his fingers and steadied myself with a hand on his chest. I placed an open-mouthed kiss on his lips. He leaned in for another one, but I fed him my fingers instead. He licked them eagerly, and seemed disappointed when I took them back. I reached around and wet the head of his cock with his own spit. With my knees on either side of him, and my toes curled against the insides of his thighs, I locked myself in place. He watched my mouth as I lowered myself onto his cock. He looked surprised, as if, even with everything leading up to exactly this, he hadn’t expected he’d be fucking me tonight.

I held his cock and rolled my hips down slowly, finally feeling myself yield to the tip. I sighed. I knew how to get past the discomfort now, how to give in to the stretch. It was a slow burn, a primal sensation that knocked the air out of my lungs every time. I paced myself, as hard as it was. Drunk me, horny me, young me wanted all of him, wanted him to turn us over and breed me into his bed. He should have taken me in the bathroom, in the elevator, in one of the alleys we’d come by on our way here. He should have had me yesterday and every day before that, between him leaving me and this moment.

I had often thought about writing, or calling him to make a dishonorable offer. Be with me, Oliver. Your wife doesn’t have to know. You can see me after hours, on weekends, tell her you’re doing research in a different city. She doesn’t have to know. So many people have affairs, we can be like them. I hadn’t reached out. The truth was that I knew I could never play second fiddle. He would have never allowed it, because we weren’t like that. It crossed my mind that maybe what we were doing now was no different or more honorable. That everyone who cheated—because that’s what he was doing— probably felt somehow justified in their actions. His friends and family would take her side for sure. How could he do this to her? Had it all been a façade, the successful, loving husband and father? Twenty years of their life down the drain, and for what? A fuck in a three-star hotel? It would offend them even more to find out it had been with me. No, we were different. The universe had messed with us enough, throwing us together for six weeks and showing us what could have been, if we hadn’t been in such incompatible stages of life. We were owed this. He had taken part of me when he left, and I was long overdue that part.

I took in more of him, slowly, until I sat in his lap. Oliver let out a breathy moan that set the pit of my tummy on fire.

'You’re fast,' he remarked. I didn’t react.

I dragged my hips up. Oliver went back to watching my mouth. His pupils were blown, the blue almost completely sucked into the black. I could have blamed it on the dim room, but I preferred to think it was me. I felt my own common sense melt away too. I rode him slowly, letting him wash over me. He stretched me, the feeling reaching the back of my throat and burning my cheeks. I allowed my eyes to flutter shut. Me, me, me. Oliver caught my open mouth and knotted his finger in my hair. He pressed a crushing kiss on my lips. Him.

'Fuck me,' I sighed.

Him, inside of me. Big, hot, but still not enough. I needed more, more than what was good for me. All of him. I wanted him to have his way with me. If this was the last time we would ever see each other, I wanted him to give me a reason. Make it so that there was nothing left to say or do. Instead, Oliver lay back on the bed.

'Oliver, fuck me,' I repeated. I rode him faster than before, but I knew my own body. My thighs wouldn’t carry me as long as I’d like them to. Oliver knew my body too. He ran his hands up my thighs, and wrapped a hand around my cock. It had been neglected until now. He stroked me languidly, apparently enjoying the view. After all this time, he still wanted to make me wait.

'Fuck me, Professor,' I blurted. It was a spur of the moment thing, but that probably meant it had been on my mind all evening. I had barely recognized the man downstairs in the lobby, and it was high time I met him, built him into my Oliver to complete the picture. Oliver’s hand stalled. I’d blown it. Killed the mood. He’d politely tell me this was a mistake, and ask me to leave, as an academic would. The opposite turned out to be true.

Oliver snapped up. I toppled off of him, still expecting him to throw me out or storm off. Before I realized, he was on top of me, one hand on both of my wrists, crossing my arms over my head and pinning them down. He hiked my legs up and drove back into me. I wrapped my legs around his waist. It was the kind of touch I’d been starved of. It seemed like there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t touch me. His weight on me, incapacitating me, emptied my mind. I felt completely free, him melting into me, making me whole. Oliver fucked me steadily, only his hips rolling up and grounding back down into my body. I arched up against him, trying to catch his lips. He jerked his head back. Only slightly, but noticeable up close. I tried again, once, twice. No more kisses for me. His lips moved though, throwing my insults back at me. He propped himself up on my hands, and placed his free hand over my mouth. It hadn’t consciously registered with me how loud I had been until then. I had a dull ache in my forehead.

Oliver never broke eye contact. My eyelids fluttered as his hand left my face and closed around my throat. It did things to me that I knew he was capable of, but I hadn’t anticipated. He squeezed the sides of my neck, right below my jaw, with just his thumb and forefinger. ‘Cut off only the blood, not the oxygen’, I remembered his voice explaining to me. I remembered the yellow sheets on my heavy wooden bed where he fucked me, fucked me up, fucked me over. It pissed me off.

'You fuck your wife like this?'

I spat it at him, my teeth gritted. It was rude, uncalled for, but I wanted him to remember, too. He’d left me there with all our memories and went off to make his own. It had been a false start for me and I’d never quite caught up. I wanted him to remember what he’d done to me, to us. I had never blamed him for anything, but now it was all I could think about. I needed to blame someone.

'Hm? You fuck your wife like this?'

Oliver hadn’t stopped fucking me, hadn’t missed a beat, so I dared to ask him again. He shook his head.

'No?'

'No.'

'Only me?'

'Only you.'

His grip on my neck softened. He let go of my hands, and I ran them through his hair. He sat back, still inside of me and took in my body, as if he was appreciating it properly for the first time tonight. I arched off the bed and rolled my hips up, screwing myself on his dick. Oliver ran his hands down my thighs again. They passed over my hips and wrapped around my dick, one at the base, one working the head. He spat on me. He knew exactly what he was doing. I was unraveling in his hands. I was taking all of him every time I raised my hips, the base of his dick stretching me more than was good for me. Oliver stroked me slowly. It was the wine that ended me. I wanted to drag this feeling out for as long as possible, but as soon as I felt the fire licking at me, I gave in. I came over Oliver’s hand and my own abdomen, clenching down around his dick.

Oliver collapsed on top of me, kissing me, running his fingers through my hair. His hands were caring, but his body had no regard for mine. I felt raw, getting fucked post-climax. I wanted nothing more than to make this last forever though. I wrapped my legs around him again and slung an arm around his neck. He kissed me roughly, teeth clicking together.

'Come,' I whispered against his skin. Make me yours again, Oliver. He moaned, his head dropping against my shoulder. I felt his abdomen tighten against mine. 'Come, Elio.' It was the last step of making him mine again. 'Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio,' I repeated. It became abstract, like a chant almost, everything between us crammed into it. With a sob, Oliver came inside of me, riding out his orgasm in long strides before his hips stuttered to a halt.

Even with Oliver on top of me, I was cold. A shiver ran up my spine, stirring him. He pushed himself up with a groan, pulled out of me and got up from the bed. Again, I worried this was it. He’d throw me out now. I wouldn’t blame him. He stood at the foot of the bed and picked his towel up from the floor, wiping himself clean before he kneeled on the bed and did the same for me. He rolled on his back and sighed. I thought of saying something, but nothing came to mind. I scootched over, under his arm, and rested my head on the dip under his collarbone; I knew I fit there. I felt Oliver’s heart thudding against my ear. There was an infomercial for ceramic pans blaring out of the television. Oliver didn’t say anything either. He brushed the hair off my forehead and kissed it.

I woke up twice during the night. The first time I didn’t recognize the room. I was disoriented and not sure if a part of me was still asleep. I turned and brought my face up to Oliver’s. The scent of his skin and his breath on my face convinced me that I was awake. If I was dreaming, that was okay too. The second time I woke up it was because Oliver was up too. He ran his hand up my back and over my shoulder. His fingers brushed some hair out of my face. It felt like he too was trying to confirm that he was awake, and that I was who he thought I was. I pretended to be asleep, stirring only slightly as goosebumps spread after his fingers left my skin. Oliver pulled the sheet up to my shoulders.

When I woke up a third time, I knew it was morning. The room was still dim, but the traffic outside was louder. I was alone in the bed. It only took a few beats to confirm that Oliver hadn’t gone yet; I heard the shower running. I dozed off again until the mattress dipped on my side. Oliver sat on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts. He was putting on socks.

'It’s early,' he confirmed. It was a whisper, as if he didn’t want to wake me too abruptly. I curled my body around his, burying my face against his thigh. I breathed him in. He smelled like soap. He ran a hand over my head. 'I have classes all morning,' he apologized. That said, he got up and went to put on his pants. They had been drying over the chair at his desk all night. He grabbed his book from the desk and flipped through the first pages. 'Can you write something in it, for me? I want to start reading on the train,' he explained. I reluctantly reached up an arm to take the book and a pen from him. While he rummaged through his closet looking for a shirt, I stared at the title page of my book. I wiped some sleep from my eye and watched as Oliver buttoned a shirt. The Muse, the page still read. Nothing else. I clicked the ballpoint pen a couple of times and then, without much thought, added a dash, and signed my book in his name.

Oliver stepped into his loafers and hoisted his bag onto his shoulder. I gave him his book back.

'See you later?'

It came out so carelessly. I smiled. I wondered if he knew how much meaning there was in adding those two words. He wasn’t waving me away. This was a question, a concrete proposition. I nodded. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder.

'I have the afternoon off. We could have lunch, catch up,' he offered casually. As if I wasn’t naked, in his bed, still sore and smelling like him. He didn’t kiss me goodbye, but that didn’t matter. I would see him later. I rolled over to his side of the bed. He paused in the doorway and put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the knob. He kept the door from falling shut with the side of his foot, and took a moment to flip through the first pages of his book. He cracked a smile at me.

'Oliver.'

I sighed as the door clicked shut behind him and turned my face into his pillow. I inhaled until my lungs couldn’t expand anymore. I exhaled with a groan, reveling in the scent he’d left me with. I would hang out in his bed until he returned and had me again. We would have lunch together and later, again.


	2. Ourania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the morrow...
> 
> "And besides, what is space if not the body's absence at every point?" - Joseph Brodsky, 'To Urania'
> 
> Ourania (Urania) was named Muse of astronomy and astronomical writings, her name meaning "heavenly" or "of heaven".

I dozed for an hour or so after Oliver had left. I switched pillows a handful of times, making sure his scent wouldn’t be replaced by my own. Speaking of scents, I _reeked_. Pure bathwater with no soap had done nothing to rid me of the smell of rain, sex, and a lot of emotional sweating. I sat up in bed and felt the muscles in my abdomen protest. I made a mental note to at least fit in a few crunches every day. I needed a shower. My stomach growled. I needed breakfast too. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and I’d been running on adrenaline, but it was running low. Food was the priority. 

I ordered breakfast up to the room and accepted it in my boxer shorts. My jaw clicked when I took the first spoonful to my mouth. I got back out of my shorts and settled into bed again. I didn’t want to taint our smell. I hoped the world outside wouldn’t taint Oliver.He would have time away from me. At work, he’d be distracted, but his mind could wander on the train to and fro. Faced with reality, he could change his mind. If he showed up back here at lunchtime, and I’d washed away all traces of last night, there would be room for politeness. I would be ready to go, we would have a nice lunch. He’d drop hints, maybe mention his wife. We’d shake hands. I knew Oliver could be very tactful. I wanted none of his manners. I wouldn’t shower. I finished my granola; a light breakfast. Lunch would be in a couple of hours and I wanted Oliver to believe I had slept all morning. I left my tray in front of the door, hoping it would be cleared away by the time he got back. How long was ‘all morning’? Was he teaching until noon? Or were we speaking student terms? Their morning could last until two, three o’clock. He had asked me out for lunch though, not late lunch. Noon seemed like the more satisfactory option. 

I rummaged through my backpack and found the plastic container with my leftovers from lunch. I thought about eating them for a moment, but then decided against it. They had been in my bag, unrefrigerated, for close to a full day, and it had been pretty warm. I opened the door again, made sure the ‘don’t disturb’ sign was still on the handle and dropped the bag onto my breakfast tray. I went back to my backpack. I dug my cell phone out of the bottom. Full battery, no missed calls. It was a little past eight. It hit me again how hungry I was, even after a generous portion of granola, yogurt and fruit. The kind of breakfast you’d tell yourself you’ll have every day when you buy a bag of granola, only to throw it away two months later, half empty and dusty. At this time of morning, I was usually still asleep—perks of being an independent author with a reasonable inheritance. I also usually woke up with my stomach in knots, my chest tight as if someone planted their heavy boot firmly on my sternum. Heel digging into my stomach, pointy toe against my throat. I liked to imagine a Captain Morgan-like stance. As the day went on, his boot would start to feel lighter, and a few glasses of wine in the afternoon usually shook him off entirely. But here I was, eight in the morning, no boot. I wondered if I looked different, too. 

Examining myself in the bathroom mirror, I seemed to find myself standing a little taller. I ruffled a hand through my hair in an attempt to fluff it up. My forehead felt relaxed somehow, as if I’d finally let go of a frown I’d been carrying for years without even knowing it. I ran a finger over it for good measure. 

I used the bathroom, freshened up with hand soap and splashed some water in my face. I ran my wet fingers through my hair and dried off with a small towel. I looked and smelled infinitely better. My thighs ached though. A dull hangover reaching from my knees, over my thighs, and up my sides.A reminder of being thoroughly worked over. My jaw twitched at the recollection. I looked away. It was odd to see my own eyes look back at me as a sexual being. Not that I was a prude. I’d been around, as terrible as that sounded. At first, it had been tall, blond men that got my time. Then just tall men. Blonde girls. Sun-kissed girls with fine golden hairs meeting in a point at the base of their skulls. I loved it when they wore their hair up. I learned to love dark hair, pale skin, soft thighs, small feet, with painted nails. I scrunched up my face and scratched my eyebrow before brushing the hairs flat again. 

I settled back into bed and turned on the television. I needed some noise to ease my mind. I lay on my side and pulled the large sheet up. I tucked it between my legs, one side of me covered, my back bare. Perfectly staged for Oliver to find me. I hoped he _wanted_ to find me. Maybe he was teaching right now, hoping I’d be gone by the time he got back. Maybe that would be easier. Just leaving a note, friendly but determined. _This was lovely, goodbye._ Maybe he didn’t have classes at all, and he just needed to get away. Just as people would grow better in my memories, sometimes they grew meaner. Maybe Oliver was _expecting_ me to be gone by the time he got back. Had he frowned when he noticed I was awake? Maybe he never meant to wake me, and he’d preferred to just have slipped out at the crack of down, leaving me to draw my own conclusions. Either way, it was too late now; my breakfast would show up on his bill, and the least I could do was stay to reimburse him. 

 

I must have fallen asleep again, because I woke up from the sound of someone fumbling at the door. Taking the sign off the handle, inserting the card into the slot. I kept my eyes closed. _The ball is in your court now, Oliver._ I heard the door swing open, and then, much more quietly, click shut. My ears rang, somehow trying to make out his reaction from just his breathing and his soft steps on the carpet. He stopped at my side of the bed and stepped out of his shoes.Before I could decide whether or not to feign waking up, the mattress shifted. He sat down carefully at first, his feet gliding over the sheet as he brought them up too. He sidled up to me, his chest against my back, his thighs against my thighs, his toes tickling the balls of my feet. I fake-stirred, not yielding to his touch, but more than that. I wanted to embed myself completely into his form. My calves against his shins, the small of my back against his stomach, my shoulders straightening out against his. He dropped his head against my neck and sighed. I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but I was convinced I _heard_ him smile. The sound of his nose pressed into my hair crackled in my ear. I arched my back up against him, my ass flush with his groin. He was hard. _Feel this, Oliver? How this fits? Oh, how the mind can wander on a train ride._

My indication that I was awake was Oliver’s cue. He ran his hand up my bare thigh and over my side. The skin on his palm was pulled taut and his fingers stretched out, touching as much of me as he could at once. He placed his hand on my chest and, with his arm wrapped around me, pulled me in closer. He tugged the sheet from between my legs and replaced it with his knee, nudging my legs apart. He rolled on top of me, his entire weight pinning me against the bed. He smashed his lips against my skin. I couldn’t even call it a kiss, because he used his entire face. He was breathing me in, as I had done to his pillow all morning. He kissed whatever he could reach; temple, eyelid, cheek, ear. His lips dragged over the soft spot behind my ear and down my neck, over my shoulder. I turned my face into his pillow again. Oliver ran his hand over my shoulders and down my back, as if to reacquaint himself with my skin. This was how he wanted me; face down, ass up. I reached back to feel his hair, longer in the front than near the nape of his neck. He kissed my shoulder blades, hungry. I felt his teeth. It was as though the handful of hours we had just spent apart had been harder to sustain than the past twenty years. The buildup had been bigger now that he knew what he’d missed all this time. A clear part of my mind told me that this didn’t bode well for us, that this couldn’t last, that this wouldn’t end well. It was clouded over when Oliver’s weight lifted off me. He braced himself on one arm so he could run his tongue down my spine. A shudder followed, and—when he didn’t pause at the base of my spine—a sob found its way out. It was mostly muffled by the pillow. Oliver hiked my hips up and wrapped an arm under me. I had been hard from the moment he pressed his fully clothed body against my naked one. He barely stroked me. His fingers ran over my erection as if only to make sure I was still enjoying myself. 

And _by god_ , I was enjoying myself. Oliver ran his tongue between my cheeks without hesitation. I shivered, feeling his breath on my skin, one hand firmly planted on my hip. He licked me, slowly at first. I felt the blush on my face spread to my ears and over my chest. This wasn’t embarrassment though; there was no embarrassment here. Oliver’s tongue stiffened. It felt like he was kissing a bruise. He was relentless, probing, licking the same spot over and over again, eliciting the most shameful sounds from my throat. Parents always tell their kids not to lick their ice cream in the same spot so as not to make a mess. The same applied here; I was the mess, a melty scoop of ice cream about to topple from its cone. I enjoyed hearing my own moans absorbed into the pillow. They rolled in the back of my mouth, almost like a purr.

Oliver’s hand was still lazily wrapped around my dick. I rolled my hips a little to spur him on, inadvertently riding his face. He steadied me, but allowed it. In return, I extended my leg backward and ran my toes over his pants. I carefully pressed the ball of my foot into his crotch. I had limited mobility but managed to curl my toes over his dick, rubbing it through the thin fabric. Oliver let out a breathy chuckle. He pulled back, my leg dropping back onto the bed. He ran his tongue up from my balls, effectively shutting down my playing footsie. I turned my face back into his pillow and ran my hands up my own neck and into my hair. I needed _more_. Oliver’s tongue in my ass was intoxicating, making my dick twitch every time my mind connected with my body for long enough to point out what he was doing. But it wasn’t enough. It was like that click before plummeting down a rollercoaster, only the fall didn’t come. 

I repeated the process; running my foot up his thigh, resting it on his crotch, pressing his erection into his leg, the head caught between my toes. Oliver sat up again. I watched him over my shoulder. 

“Needy,” he simply remarked. It was a deep grumble, only the consonants making their way out properly.

I _was_ needy. And quite a few steps past shame by now.

“Please.” I could watch him mull it over. Begging always worked. His hand didn’t lift off my hip, but traced down my crease. He pursed his lips and spat on me, his wet thumb then pressing into me. “Oh- _shit,”_ I hissed. The gesture was crude and almost vulgar, but it was exactly what I wanted from him. He looked me straight in the eye. He seemed stern, as if he was still deciding what to do, if _I_ would do. His eyelids were heavy, closing more often than necessary. Oliver’s lips were plump and wet, and I wanted him to kiss me, but I wanted him inside me more. He undid his belt with one hand and flicked a thumb at his button. He slid a hand down the front of his boxer shorts, pulling them down until they rested just below his hips. He stroked his own erection, his thumb still firmly lodged in my ass. I loved just watching him.

He spat on himself twice, now using his thumb to spread the saliva over his dick. A thread of spit stuck to his bottom lip. Little beads shimmered as they slid down, like dew on a spider web. It felt so juvenile. Not the drooling, but the urgency of it all. It reminded me of our bike rides together, the sound of gears ticking, gravel against our spokes, and swallows and cicadas screaming around us. The summer smelled of warm, sticky pine. There were bright purple thistles in the berm, and sprouting nettles lapping at my legs when I got too close. Oliver rode behind me, wondering out loud about every plant with white blossoms if it was hogweed, clearly worried about the horror stories Mafalda had told him. I’d sit up straight, arch my back and press my ass into my saddle, well aware of my trunks sitting a little too low on my hips. It would shut him up, and he would race me home to pull them off altogether, and be inside me as fast as possible. It hadn’t even been a day since he’d had me, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

The tip of his dick nudged me as he tried to guide himself into me. His shirt was in the way. I reached back and grabbed it, bunching it up in my fist. He seemed far away, but he was right there. I watched the trail of hair running down from under his belly button, and finally understood why it was called a happy trail. I let out a shaky breath when he finally slipped inside me. Slowly, but too much at once and yet not enough by a long shot. Oliver breached the second tight ring of muscle. I groaned. His eyes flickered up to my face and back down. I wasn’t ready to get fucked again, but I was determined to hold on to any chance I got. I felt my blood pool together in the pit of my stomach. He filled me slowly, carefully. He pulled back and spat again, drove himself into me a little faster the second time. I rolled my hips up to meet him the third time. He stalled. I fucked myself deliberately. Arching my back as far down as I could, rocking forward on my knees so he could watch himself slip out of me. I wanted him to impose his lust on me. _Objectify me, Oliver. If you can’t take me home, take this for what it is, take me for what I am; naked, open, horny. A hole tight enough to get you off. Abuse it._

Oliver’s hand finally shifted from my hip. He ran it up my spine, the same way his tongue had come. He pressed my chest into the bed. His hand settled on the back of my neck. It was the loudness of his hips meeting my ass that alerted me _he_ was fucking _me_ again. His belt jingled with each thrust. His fingers found their way up my skull and nestled in my hair. He tugged it, softly at first, then so roughly he lifted my forehead out of the pillow. His weight shifted over me again, and his free arm came to rest next to my head. I noticed the cool buttons on his shirt press into my back. He yanked my head to face him, and I felt my jaw clench. Even if this what exactly what I wanted, my instinctual reaction to constraint was pushing back. I knew there was no point; Oliver outclassed me. He fucked me hard and fast, and with every pump, his breath fell onto my face. I closed my eyes. 

“Get yourself off before I come inside you again,” he warned. He finished his threat by touching his forehead to mine, putting force into his touch before pulling out of reach again. 

I wedged a hand between my own body and the mattress and felt my own erection, trapped. I wrapped a hand around it and attempted to raise my hips just a little, even just an inch. Oliver’s weight on me was perfect. I didn’t want to shrug him off, but I _did_ want to get myself off. He stayed unbothered, fucking me, tugging at the fistful of hair every time he pulled out of me. I licked my thumb and managed to maneuver my hand under me a little easier this time. I wet the head of my dick and started stroking myself. I was close already.

I couldn’t focus. Not on the fingers in my hair, or the hand now firmly planted in the middle of my back. Not on my own hand, wrist twisted, stroking myself unsteadily. Not on Oliver’s dick, filling me, spreading me, knocking whatever breath I had left out of my lungs. In the end, it was Oliver’s moaning—a deep rumble that reminded me it was _him_ inside me this whole time—that made me come, awkwardly, all over the bedsheets. Like biking over wet cobblestones in Rome. Watching my front wheel slip two, three times, straightening it out, before finally my back wheel betrays me and gives way from under me; sudden, unexpected, embarrassing.

I felt Oliver pull out of me, perhaps as a courtesy, as I slumped down on the bed. His one hand still on my back, now stroking himself with the other. He came quickly, and his breathing sounded almost pained, as if he wasn’t doing this out of free will, but out of an innate need. He came over my back, and I counted the spurts. 

Oliver broke the silence with a kiss on my crown. He lifted off me altogether and got off the bed. I groaned and turned my face towards him. He collected my boxer shorts off the floor and cleaned himself off, pulled up his pants and tucked his shirt in again, successfully removing any evidence. He picked one of the complimentary water bottles off the desk and opened it. He drank quickly, downing half the bottle in one go. Wiping his mouth, he tilted his head to the side to watch me. I hadn’t moved yet. His nose had turned red. He held out the bottle but I shook my head. He screwed the cap back on, dropped the bottle on the bed and smacked my ass. 

“Go shower, I’m starving,” he complained. He seemed pleased with himself. “We should get out of here, let them change these sheets,” he then said matter-of-factly. 

 

I showered, using all of Oliver’s products. As soon as I turned off the water, I heard talking from the other room. I strained my ears but couldn’t make out the conversation. I dried off. I found my clothes in the bathroom, dry but nowhere near fresh. I wrapped the towel around my waist and opened the door to the room. I found Oliver on the phone, leaned against the desk. He looked up, but it didn’t look like I was intruding. 

“Clothes,” I mouthed. 

He nodded towards his closet. I opened it and grabbed the first black tee I could find. I dug around for some shorts, assuming it was still as warm outside. I heard Oliver laugh wholeheartedly.

“I have to go now,” he rounded off the conversation, and then, almost as an afterthought: “Alright—I love you”. He waited for a split second to hang a quick ‘bye’ at the end and then hung up. I stared into his closet. They had rolled off his tongue so naturally, as they surely rolled off mine when I spoke to my mother. He had never spoken those words to me though, nor had I to him. They would have seemed silly when we were together, far too heavy and too defining. They would have pinned us down in a cliché. His voice repeated them in my head. They were mine now. He didn’t tell me who’d been on the other line.

I grabbed a pair of shorts that were in the bottom of the closet. Already worn, Oliver warned me. I ignored him and put them on. They sat a little loose on my hips.

 

After lunch, we hung out in bed together, as we’d done all those summers ago. I sat up against the head, Oliver stretched out next to me, facing the foot of the bed. His laptop needed to be plugged in, and the cord wasn’t long enough. It felt natural, both of us working in silence.

“Did you think it’d be like this?” He asked me suddenly.

“Kinda.” It had slipped out before I could even give it a proper thought. End of conversation. 

We were not _not_ -talking. There was just nothing to say, or too much at once. Closeness was enough for now, I told myself. Like we’d opened a bottle of red wine and were just letting it breathe before indulging. Oliver had closed his laptop and started reading my book at some point. He was a dozen or so pages in. I had noticed he dogeared a few pages and then moved on. It made me smile. His shirt had ridden up a few inches, baring just a little of his back. I had been running my fingers over the available skin for minutes before I noticed the little spider veins. There were too many to count, tiny broken capillaries, most likely a remnant of his exorbitant _apricating_ in his youth. Oliver probably wasn’t even aware of them. His wife might be. Was this something between me and her now? I had tried to hate her, but I couldn’t hate anyone Oliver loved enough to share his life with.

When Oliver had announced his engagement, my parents were careful not to bring it up around me. They weren’t idiots, I now knew. I had ignored the predicament for as long as possible. Nothing was set in stone, until it was printed black and white. My mother had cut the wedding announcement out of the newspaper and put it on the fridge with a small heart shaped magnet. ‘ _The families are delighted to announce… To be married on the family estate…’_ I remembered thinking about his family estate. It put Oliver in a different light. Twenty-five, Columbia professor, well-off. It would be the wedding of the year. I had willed myself to forget her name, which was harder than willing yourself to remember something. I knew that, even now, if I strained myself, I would probably still remember it. Over the course of a week, my seventeen-year-old self had moved the magnet over the girl’s face. That didn’t help either, because Oliver still had his arm around her. Under the guise of spring cleaning, I had gotten rid of the announcement altogether. Not in the garbage, but tucked away far enough so I didn’t have to find it for years to come. It was still hard not to feel contempt when thinking about her, even though I knew she was an innocent party in all this. I wasn’t invited to the wedding. 

I huffed and, after a short pause, continued caressing the skin on Oliver’s lower back. He rested his chin on his shoulder to look back at me. 

“We should go to the beach,” he said. 

I was taken aback. It sounded like he’d just come up with the plan. If we were to take trips together, then this was something that didn’t just exist in the now.

“Okay,” was all I could muster up. 

“I mean tonight—Mars will be at opposition soon, I think our best shot of getting a good look will be at the beach,” he went on.

I didn’t even pretend to understand what he was talking about. The corners of his mouth curled up and he exhaled through his nose, in what would be a condescending chuckle if he didn’t look so damn beautiful doing it.

“C’mon, Elio—Astronomy!” he exclaimed. He explained excitedly about how Mars would be so close to earth, we should be able to see it on the horizon. He used hand gestures in elliptical motions. “And in the middle of a meteor shower!” 

I apparently smiled and nodded at all the appropriate times, because Oliver seemed to think it was a done deal. We would have dinner together, then take the train to the beach. I didn’t ask what beach, but assumed we’d be driving for at least an hour. We could talk then. Some wine would loosen our tongues. It crossed my mind that I still hadn’t stopped by my hotel, but didn’t mention it. It could wait.

 

We had dinner at a small Italian place. Oliver picked it. It looked shabby, and my forearms stuck to the plastic red and white checkered tablecloth. I ordered a carafe of white wine. Oliver embarrassed me with his bitter lemon. I felt the urge to explain that I wasn’t an alcoholic, but the waiter came to my rescue by pouring us both a glass. Our first carafe was empty before we even got our food. Oliver ordered a steak. I got spaghetti with garlic and olive oil. Oliver grabbed a small pepper mill from a nearby table; he remembered. 

Oliver spun his fork around in my plate. He took a bite and beamed at me, chewing.

“Almost as good as your father’s butter and salt spaghetti,” he decided. I understood that this was his way of offering his condolences. A sweet memory I had forgotten altogether. In Oliver, my father had found a son that was not yet sick of his stories and theories. Oliver always seemed hungry for more. A politeness, I had assumed at first. My father adored him for it. It wasn’t until I came home from Le Danzing one night and found the two of them in the kitchen that I realized there was a real connection. They had stayed up late talking and, as the day had gotten longer, they needed another meal. My dad had thrown together his version of mac and cheese; spaghetti, a sauce made out of butter and starchy pasta water, with salt and parmesan cheese until you told him ‘when’. He served me a bowl too and we sat at the kitchen table until my father turned off the lights because it was so bright outside we no longer needed them. We’d spent that day napping by the pool. 

Another carafe later, we finished our food and Oliver made clear he wanted to leave soon. He had a way of rounding things off that was clear but polite. I headed to the bathroom and found myself drunk, again. I peed and washed my hands. The first two paper towels I tried to pull from the dispenser melted in my wet hands. All this wine later, Oliver’s intentions were a mystery to me. He’d updated me on the technicalities of his life, but kept the details behind a screen. It almost seemed like he’d closed a door on that life before he’d decided to show up in mine again. Not for good, but just long enough so that his two lives wouldn’t bleed into each other. It was quite the opposite of what I’d been doing. I’d been leaving the door ajar all this time, making it easier for everyone to leave me the same way they came.

Oliver’s presence in my life had been almost biblical. I wouldn’t have wondered if I’d spent my entire childhood counting backwards until the summer he showed up. Italy was forever split in BC and AD. It was the last whole summer I spent in our house, the last time I had called my room _my_ room, before it became his. The next summer I spent time touring universities all over. Having been raised as openly as I had been, there was no push in one direction or another. I was lost. I got a driver’s license that summer, too. I didn’t realize how much I started depending on our little Fiat until I found my race bike in the shed, all dusty, the chain dry. I spent summers in the States after that, blamed it on friends and girlfriends, and later on work. I outgrew our visitors, and it seemed inappropriate to share a bathroom with them. 

The house had changed too. The year my father died, my mother had started refurbishing. The heavy ashtrays on every flat surface in every room were the first to go. She got furious with me when she found my cigarette ashes on the patio one morning. I told her she had taken all the ashtrays but soon realized her anger had nothing to do with the mess I’d made. She threw out chairs and couches, painted doors and window frames, and ripped down wallpaper. She started a new project every day, never finishing the previous. She cursed the house, or ‘money pit’ as she came to call it. That she should have let her sister buy her out, let her deal with the mess. Warned me to refuse it as an inheritance when she came to go, donate it to the town. I didn’t visit at all the summer after that. I still remembered arriving two years later. I found the front doors wide open as usual and walked through the house. She sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper, a large white hat on her head and her bra straps hanging off her shoulders, ensuring an even tan. She’d jumped up as soon as she saw me, rested her cigarette on a clay ashtray I had made in school one year, pulled up her bra straps and embraced me. 

With the thought of my mother still in the back of my head, I returned to our table.

“You okay?” 

Oliver looked genuinely concerned. I couldn’t estimate how long I’d spent in the bathroom. I nodded and saw he’d already ordered the bill. There were two shot glasses of limoncello on the table. I slumped down. Oliver took his glass and knocked it back. I did the same, even though the taste had never grown on me. The sweet acidity hurt my cheeks. Oliver put money on the little metal tray holding the bill. He paid cash, again. I wondered if his wife opened his credit card statements.

“Another?”

“Oh—no, I’m—,” I began, but the owner of the restaurant was already giving us a refill. Oliver raised his eyebrows at me, asking me if I needed help. I drank my second digestif and got up confidently. I didn’t need any help.

 

The train was warm. Oliver stood next to me and explained the itinerary. A few stops, change, then down, across the river. It would take us an hour and a half at least. It would be completely dark once we got there, but we’d probably still need a few hours to get a good view. No talk about getting back, to his hotel or mine. We changed at Times Square, found our way through the bustle, got on the next train. I was warm. My eyelids were sweating and I had a faint stomach ache. I couldn’t focus on what Oliver was telling me. 

“You okay?” I heard again. 

“Yeah, it’s—warm,” I shrugged. It wasn’t just warm though. It was loud, and bright, and crowded. Twenty-one stops. It seemed endless. There was no way. I watched Oliver look out the window. He was one of the only ones not blatantly looking at their own reflection in the train windows. I could tell he was staring out, his eyes flickering from right to left rapidly. I tried the same, looked past my own face and into the dark tunnel. Bad idea. A bright blue spot popped up in my peripheral vision. When I tried to look at it, it grew, blurring most of what was right of me. My mouth filled up with saliva. I tried to swallow twice, but my throat seemed blocked. 

“Okay, no, no, no-,” Oliver then decided. I couldn’t decide anymore. My reflection in the window evaporated as the train entered a bright station. The doors opened and he ushered me out. With three fingers and a thumb on my lower back, he guided me. My feet followed. Up, up, up, until the fresh outside air hit me.

 

We walked from there. After a few blocks, I was cold. It felt like my entire body was covered in a layer of sweat that had rapidly cooled off. I spent the next couple of blocks trying to convince Oliver I was okay, that I wasn’t _that_ drunk. I honestly wasn’t. I blamed it on the short night, the long day, the warm train. I’d had no coffee, and was twice-fucked.By the time he told me to shut up, we’d reached water. Not the beach, but the Hudson, I figured. We crossed the last street separating us from the river. Oliver’s hand gravitated back onto my back. I hated to admit it to myself, but I felt safe.

There were two piers stretched out in front of us, and Oliver navigated us towards the longer one. A while into the water, the concrete under my feet turned into pale wooden boards. It felt like a different country. There were benches all along the side of the pier, but we sat down right by the edge, on the concrete. It was still warm. Oliver leaned back against the railing. I stuck my legs underneath it and leaned back on my elbows. Oliver patted his chest pocket and raised an eyebrow at me.

“Can you cut it out? I’m not gonna slip through and drown,” I assured him. He chuckled and finally seemed to let it go. I dangled my feet. I was fine. A couple jogged by, the boards vibrating under my hands. Oliver finally dug a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket and looked up. It was almost dark. 

“We’re not gonna see much from here,” he remarked. 

“Sorry.” I wasn’t. I much preferred this to an hourlong train ride to an unnamed beach where we probably wouldn’t see anything either. Sit beside Oliver in the damp sand, have him explain constellations like an overzealous dad trying to set up the most educational field trip. Oliver had an olive green lighter in his pack, and apart from about a dozen cigarettes, there were two joints. He took one out and slipped the pack back into his pocket. “ _Professor_ ,” I hissed at him. I shook my head, tutting.

“Where do you think I got this stuff in the first place?” Oliver retorted, and shot me a quick smile. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. It seemed out of character for him to buy pot from a student. Then again, he could be so nonchalant about it that he’d probably get away with it. The joint was meticulously rolled. The filter tucked in tightly, the contents packed together compactly to ensure a slow burn. Oliver ran the filter between his lips and covered the lower half of his face as he lit it. I watched the crease between his eyebrows light up. His eyelashes cast a shadow. He took a long drag, leaned his head back against the metal railing and dragged his breath down deeper, his chest expanding, shoulders relaxing. He handed the joint to me. I did the same, and leaned forward, resting my chin on the railing. We passed it back and forth for a while. It had gone completely dark, or at least as dark as it would get. The sky always had an orange, brownish tint in the city. The longer you looked, the browner it got. I saw maybe a handful of stars. 

“I _am_ sorry about Mars though,” I apologized, a little more genuine this time. “Is it like a once-in-a-lifetime thing?”

“Depends how long you live,” Oliver replied. “No,” he then said quickly, reassuring me that I hadn’t made him miss the astronomical event of the millennium, but also that he planned to stick around for a while. “Maybe I’ll take someone else next time though. I got my youngest a telescope last Christmas. He seems to like it a lot,” he mused. I smiled. A tidbit. Maybe he’d left the door on a crack after all. It was enough for now. Oliver sniffed. 

“I didn’t know you were into all this,” I confessed.

“Everyone needs a hobby,” he shrugged. I nodded knowingly, but his face broke out in a grin. I read too much into it. _You wouldn’t understand, Elio. Married men need hobbies to get away from their boring lives. It was either stargazing or fucking the paperboy on a regular basis._ As if to stop my mind from running, Oliver took over again. “It’s interesting to see what else is out there,” he mumbled, peering up at the starless sky. 

“Find anyone hot out there yet?” 

Oliver gave me his lighter to light the joint again. I took another drag. 

“Not yet,” he chuckled. His face turned more serious again. “If you spend enough time looking up though, you realize that whatever is going on down here is pretty insignificant.”

It felt like a slap in the face. Was this aimed at me? Or was he just generalizing? Was this how he’d been getting on all this time, just relativizing everything? If so, _I_ had to feel sorry for _him_. I’d been hearing a version of this for over a decade: ‘ _when_ you _have kids,_ then _you’ll understand_ ’. I didn’t have a wife or a family of my own, so I was still very much the center of my own universe. I didn’t know what it felt like to put other people first, so the decision to stay childless and unattached hadn’t been entirely unintentional. I had inherited my parents’ hedonistic lifestyle. It was an awareness of the world out there, but all of it in relation to me. Knowing that you’re just a grain of sand, and making the most of it. It offended me that he’d dismiss himself like that. _My_ Oliver.

“We know so little of what else there is. Don’t you ever think about that?” Oliver contemplated.

“I try not to,” I shrugged. It was his turn to give me an offended look. “Stresses me out,” I explained. I wasn’t sure if I was joking; Oliver didn’t laugh. Instead, he took the joint from me and took a long drag. He leaned in towards me and, as I met him halfway, he cupped both hands over my face and kissed me, exhaling into me. I let my head fall back. Oliver pulled away, but closed his hands over my eyes. I saw stars. I didn’t enjoy being blindfolded, like I didn’t enjoy being held underwater, playful or not. I didn’t like it when people held onto me while I rode a bike. Yet I’d let Oliver do all of those things, and had found such intimacy in that trust. His hands left my face, but I kept my eyes closed. One hand rested on my bare thigh. I strangely couldn’t estimate how high up his hand was, like panicking when shampoo ran out of my hair towards my eye, only to wipe it away and find it nowhere near it. His fingers fanned out, and dipped under the fabric of my shorts—his shorts. _So that’s how far up he is._ I had neglected to put on underwear. Oliver kissed my neck, and I felt him smile when my dick twitched against his touch. He ran his hand along it, and by the time he reached the tip again, I was fully hard. I still had my eyes closed, my mouth agape. Anyone who walked by wouldn’t have to look twice to realize what was going on. But I trusted Oliver to be on the lookout; I was in good hands.

Oliver stroked me slowly. I heard cars rushing close by, and the rumble of the city behind them. The water sloshed against the pier below us. On the other side of the river, New Jersey brought forth a lot of the same sounds as the city behind us. And, in the middle of my universe, Oliver’s breathing against my skin. He’d arrived, I’d arrived. Like celestial bodies on their personal orbit, finally reaching opposition again after twenty years. And I wasn’t going to let cheap Italian wine or limoncello get in the way of _that_. I let a moan slip out. He shushed me, grazed his lips against my neck, his hand still stroking my dick between my legs. 

“Oliver,” I hummed. “Where’ve you been?”

He didn’t reply, but pulled his hand out of my shorts and stroked my face, brushed my hair back and placed a kiss on my cheek. I opened my eyes. 

We made love in my room that night. Slowly and deliberately; unhurried. I made noise, he made noise. There were no hands over mouths, no arms holding back. I watched chest hair, stubble, wrinkles, creases, freckles, veins, and droplets of sweat. I took my time mapping them all out like constellations, because I didn’t know how long this would last and when I’d get this close again. But, depending on how long we both lived, probably in this lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! Second of all, you should go thank Ghostcat for telling me to quit the bullshit and gently coaxing me into writing more for this story. So in a wine-fueled mood I decided to make this into nine chapters, one for each muse. Dionysus would approve! I hope (and pray to those very muses) that the next seven come more easily...


	3. Polymnia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those tongues to sound, that have on sweetest milk  
> Of Polyhymnia and her sisters fed  
> And fatten'd, not with all their help to boot,  
> Unto the thousandth parcel of the truth,  
> My song might shadow forth that saintly smile,  
> flow merely in her saintly looks it wrought." - Dante Alighieri, from Paradiso (Canto XXIII)
> 
> Polymnia (Πολύμνια) was in Greek mythology the Muse of sacred poetry, sacred hymn, dance, and eloquence, her name meaning "the one of many hymns".

 

It was unnerving how quickly everything always went back to normal. Like going back to school after eight weeks in the country and falling into the rhythm within a couple of days. Or how we ate leftovers from my father’s funeral in front of the television and laughed, as if nothing had changed. I arrived back in my apartment and the whole weekend felt like a dream my memory didn’t have a firm grasp on. I called Oliver to tell him I made it home safe. He didn’t have much time; the little orange screen on my cell phone told me the call took forty-six seconds. I didn’t hear from him after that. There had been a vague promise to visit me, but I didn’t hang too much hope on it. 

I finished up my dishes and opened a window, the soft hum of people enjoying a summer morning entering my living room. I’d grown to love Boston. It wasn’t always like that. It had been my father’s idea to get me a studio apartment rather than a place in the dorms. It would be a good investment, and I would have the chance to get away from all the bustle. My parents knew I enjoyed spending time on my own. A friend of the family knew just the place: a small studio apartment I wouldn’t have to share with anyone. An older building, good connection to campus and a large Italian community nearby. I didn’t care too much about the latter. My parents had come along to help me settle in, and we’d taken the train back and forth to campus. It was a half-hour ride, but it wasn’t unpleasant with their company, on a slow summer day. The ride would give me time in the mornings to read over my sheets and listen to my music. I could nap on the way home, and have my own little space, free to invite whomever. My mother had rested her head on my shoulder as we drove back to the apartment. I’d daydreamed about filling my own shelves with old books and ones I was yet to read. Have the windows open in spring and drink wine with fellow students or play music together. The commute had quickly become tedious though. Halfway through the fall semester, it was dark when I arrived for classes and dark when I left. I’d run late, or the train would be crowded. I’d stay the night in classmates’ dorm rooms, sleeping on the floor. It became all too easy to skip classes, and after missing a few, too embarrassing to show up. I would sleep half the day, and never have to explain myself because I wouldn’t run into anyone from class in my neighborhood, and my parents lived overseas. It was every student’s dream, but I was miserable. Near the end of the year, in a panic, I applied for a job in a bookstore right by my studio. The owner told me he wasn’t looking for help, but I talked him into it. It was plan B, in case I had to drop out. I’d be able to immediately put a band-aid on the wound it would inflict on my parents. I didn’t drop out. Somehow I talked myself out of that. I kept the job.

I kept the apartment too. It had very much become my home, and I was happy there. It had one large room, and one bathroom. There wasn’t much ground surface, but the old building did provide high ceilings. The walls got covered in bookshelves over the years. There was a kitchenette in one corner, and a coffee table next to the couch moonlighted as a dinner table. My bed was in the middle, effectively cutting the room in half. On the opposite end, I had my desk. Despite the narrow street I was on, the light was alright. Next to my desk stood my piano. It was a Kawai, a bargain I’d obtained at a military auction. They had no idea what they were selling. It’d been a pain to get it up to the fourth floor. In the corner by the window was a large cheese plant; a gift from my mother. It seemed to have a mind of its own and had outgrown the room a while back. 

On the way to work, I picked up two coffees; one black, and one with half a packet of sugar. Abe had never asked me to bring him anything, but the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans had gotten the better of me one morning. It had seemed rude to show up with just one for myself. He’d never mentioned he drank his coffee with sugar, but I’d learned half a sugar was just enough to keep his nose from wrinkling. His thick mustache always made it seem so dramatic. I thought he was ancient when I started working at his store, and that was twenty years ago. He now looked the age I'd thought he was at the time. He was from a generation that didn’t go out for dinner, and didn’t do take away. He picked up a fresh loaf of bread every morning from the bakery a few doors down. He kept it on the counter all day. It had become one of the bookstore’s signature smells; old books, fresh bread, and coffee. I’d told him I loved the smell of old books in my first few weeks there. He’d simply shaken his head and told me it was the smell of ink eating paper. I’d inadvertently insulted his work. He had one of the neatest stores I’d come across. He spent every morning dusting all of his books, starting from the back of the store. Books were always on rotation, as he didn’t want to keep any of them in the light coming from the window for too long. He knew and had read every book he had in stock. It often shocked people when he told them he didn’t have a book as soon as they’d finished their request. _No, I don’t have to check in the back. There is no back._ When he was done with dusting and tidying up, he spent the rest of his day reading. He’d never traveled, and he wasn’t interested. Books were enough. To be completely honest, he could probably guide me through Paris or Venice better than any local guide. When he finished a book, he wrote a short review on an index card. Even if he didn’t like the book. He’d never outright say something was bad, because he respected the author taking their time, but I’d learned to recognize the markers. He’d call the book ‘challenging’ or ‘obscure’, meaning he had no idea what the hell they were trying to say. And if he couldn’t figure it out, you probably couldn’t either. The work wasn’t particularly challenging, but that was what I liked about it. After my father’s death, I didn’t have to worry about the modest pay either.

When I arrived with my coffees, there was a card in the window. Carefully written in pen, it read ‘No bicycles against the storefront please’. The neighborhood was always crowded this time of year, and people would drop their bikes off wherever to walk over the market for the Saint's Feast. Right by the door, was a stack of my books with another little card perched on top. Next to it, a small newspaper cutout, carefully taped to a piece of cardboard. The door was open, and I walked through to the back to find Abe behind his counter. I passed three customers on the way there, which would have been unusual any other season. Abe’s face broke out in a smile when he spotted me.

‘Elio!’ He roared. It startled the customers in the store. I’d found out pretty early on that, if it’s your own bookstore, you can be as loud as you want. I handed him his coffee and got behind the counter myself. Abe put his coffee down and gave me a heavy pat in the middle of my back, between my shoulder blades. ‘How are you, kid? How was the big city?’ 

I could tell he was being purposely loud now, to show off. He got up and pointed at another stack of copies on a table in the middle of the store. There was a card on there too. 

‘Good- it was good,’ I started. ‘I think people enjoyed it.’ I held back a little. I hadn’t seen what he’d written about me yet. 

‘Good? Oh, son— It’s an instant classic!’

I laughed uncomfortably, but all the racket Abe was making had already caught the attention of a lady in the store. She came to the counter holding two books, mine on top. She had a careful smile on her face, and pointed at the book.

‘Is this yours?’ I nodded, apologetically for some reason. Abe smacked me on the back again, and shoved the book in my direction, answering her question.

‘He just got back from a book tour! With dates in New York even,’ he boasted.

‘Oh, congratulations! I can’t wait to read it then. Would you mind signing my copy?’

‘Of course not,’ Abe replied again. He handed me his pen. _His_ pen. A thick Faber-Castell with a yellow gold nib. I hadn’t dared to touch it in almost twenty years at the store. I carefully unscrewed the top.

‘Christina,’ the woman simply said. I nodded. They carried on talking over me as I signed her copy, like I was the child at a parent-teacher meeting. My signature was bigger and curlier with this pen. I added the date at the bottom. The woman paid and left the store smiling brightly.

‘So how was it?’ Abe sat down again and took a sip of his coffee, smacking his lips when he found it just sweet enough. 

‘It was just a couple of small events,’ I explained, trying to rein him in a little. ‘I think there were only like twenty people at the last one.’

‘Twenty?’ There were stars in his eyes. I shrugged. ‘You think you could do one here? Would you have to call your publisher about that?’ He waved his hand, already clearing the middle of the store in his mind. I laughed. 

‘I think I can make an exception for you, Abe,’ I smiled. 

‘Imagine— we could do it next weekend, during Saint Anthony’s Feast! The street will be full, we could have some wine for everyone,’ he mused. I conceded. It stroked my ego to see him this excited. He’d never had twenty people at once in the store, much less with beverages that could leave stains. 

 

The days came and went, and before I knew it, it had been a whole week since Oliver and I had said goodbye. Because of his apparent plans to visit, our goodbye hadn’t felt too solemn. I regretted that now. Did I kiss him enough? Or too much? Had he felt uncomfortable when I kissed him on the lips before getting into a cab? I shook my head. It didn’t matter, because I didn’t hear from him. I figured it was just as well because I now had plans for Saturday. Clearing out the store so there was room for people to sit would occupy the better part of the day. 

I checked my emails before going to work at the store on Thursday morning, and had to blink a few times to make sure I read the sender correctly. _Oliver_. The message was short, only a couple of lines. He was letting me know he’d be arriving in Boston on Saturday, around noon. Whether or not I could pick him up at the airport. Attached to the email was a short book review. I read it, then read the email again. I should have known Oliver didn’t make empty promises. If he said he’d come, he’d come. I pressed my lips together and hit reply. I told him I’d be there to pick him up.

I opted for a bath instead of a shower after breakfast that Saturday morning. The bathroom was the only thing I’d updated in all this time. When I realized I wasn’t moving out anytime soon, I’d decided that I could afford to buy myself a tub. The bathroom was small, so it wasn’t a full-size bath, and it was kinda smushed into the corner. If I wanted to put my feet in, I had to sit up. If I wanted to lean back, I had to put my legs up. I went for that last one, as I was washing my hair anyway. I had mildew on the ceiling. I’d had someone over to take a look at it and he’d assured me it wasn’t harmful, just unsightly. I disagreed. Every time I took a bath, I’d discover a new scene, like watching clouds. Lately, they’d just been variations on a theme though. Right above my head, a cluster of air pockets had developed between the ceiling and a thick layer of paint. They formed a little humanlike figure, and after a few baths, I’d decided the weird legs on it were the horse-like hooves of a satyr or a faun. The creature stood facing a larger group of bubbles, that were bushes in my imagination. Knowing their kind he was probably peeing, or spying on whatever was going on behind the bushes. I’d have to wait a little while longer to see how the story developed. I lay there, ears underwater, gazing up, listening to my own breathing. 

I was reminded of a bike ride in the summer Oliver stayed with us. It was before everything. We’d gone swimming in the morning, and on the way back, I had spotted elderberries in the shrubbery. The branches were heavy with ripe, black berries, and they hung low by the path through the woods. We had come by them on the way before. I’d remembered of Mafalda’s continuous nagging. She had mentioned several times that they were in season, and that if we wanted jams and syrups for winter, someone would have to get her some. We had already missed the elderflower season, and she was determined not to let us forget about this one. I didn’t have a bucket, so I used my sweater, tying the garment into an impromptu bag with the sleeves. Oliver didn’t even dismount from his bike, completely bewildered, as I started loading up on the big clusters of berries. Once I’d explained Mafalda’s request, he got off his bike to help me. I’d assured him they weren’t poisonous, and offered one to taste. Just one though; I’d heard you could get a stomach ache from eating them raw. We’d biked back, both shirtless, my sweater hanging from Oliver’s steering wheel. He kept popping berries into his mouth and marveling over their tanginess, and the heavy floral aftertaste. It had crossed my mind to let him fill up on elderberries, as a stomach ache would keep him at the house, where I could watch him. Instead, I’d stopped again to point out ripe blackberries, hoping they would keep him from eating Mafalda’s stockpile. I ate one myself and handed him whatever I picked after that. We hadn’t had breakfast yet, so he indulged. I remembered myself stood amid the thickets, tossing him plump berry after berry, as if to buy his affection. I’d spotted some mushrooms, and pointed them out too. I’d assured him these were safe to eat, because Manfredi, Mafalda’s husband, had shown me all the mushrooms to avoid in the area. Oliver had laughed, and called me a little faun. I vividly remembered his observation, as it had made me feel so treasured. I’d stood there in the bushes, my legs cut up by thorns, and he’d laughed at me. I’d asked him what, and he’d told me nothing, and laughed again. I understood now. 

It took me almost half an hour to find my car. I remembered I’d parked it a little further away, keeping the upcoming street fair in mind. The roads had been shut down to make room for market stalls. When I found my car, it was remarkably dustier and smaller than the car I thought I was looking for. It was hot too. I almost burned my thighs on the leather seat and cursed myself for not bringing anything to drink. I’d gotten it without all the options, because it had just been so much cheaper. I regretted that big time. I rolled up to the arrivals terminal fifteen minutes late. Sure enough, there Oliver was. He had a weekend bag over his shoulder, a large bottle of water under his arm, and a big bag of M&M’s in his hands. His face broke out in a bright smile when he spotted me as I slowed down. He yanked the door open, jumped in and dropped his bag between his legs. He leaned over and placed a kiss on my cheek. It smacked in my ear. 

‘Hi again,’ he bellowed. ‘Sweet ride.’

I laughed, but had no reply to offer. He made it seem so casual. Three days earlier I’d basically accepted that I wouldn’t hear from him again. I was taken aback by his presence, his ability to be everything in a matter of seconds, occupy every part of my mind. I pulled out of the kiss and ride. Oliver complained about the airport security on the way, how it had taken longer than the actual flight, intermittently dropping M&M’s under his tongue from the large yellow bag. He talked and chewed at the same time, but it didn’t bother me. He tipped it in my direction a few times, and I finally dug a blue one out at a light. 

‘They all taste the same, you know,’ he teased. I still wanted a blue one. 

It was a short drive, but traffic was slow for a Saturday. It gave us time for chitchat. He’d finished my book. Loved it, of course. Still wanted to ask me about some details. He’d made notes. I was delighted. I told him about Saint Anthony’s Feast and the market, and the reading I’d give in the bookstore. Small store, probably not a lot of people. Same stuff as the one he’d already been to. We wouldn’t have to stay long. He didn’t even have to join me. He told me he was excited to see where I worked. I was a little embarrassed, but I knew he was being completely genuine. 

I parked the car a few blocks away, explaining that I couldn’t get any closer because of the festivities. We walked for a few minutes, then entered my building. Oliver had his bag on his shoulder. I hadn’t offered to carry it for him. It had seemed silly. I shot him a glance over my shoulder when we reached the third floor of my building.

‘Will you stop apologizing?’ 

His voice resounded in the stairway. He sounded stern. I huffed and opened my mouth to apologize for apologizing, but quickly closed it again. I fumbled with my keys and went inside before him, trying to imagine what his impression of my studio would be. The sun was showing it from its best side. There was dust in the air, although I’d spent a good part of the morning trying to get the place spic and span. I had put fresh sheets on the bed, washed but not ironed, straight from the dryer; they were softer that way. I’d even dusted the leaves on my plant. Oliver dropped his bag on the couch and stepped up to the window. He looked down at the street we just came in from. He turned to me and smiled. 

‘Cozy,’ he summarized, his voice much softer than it had been outside. I had to agree with him on that. 

Oliver sniffed his own armpit and groaned, pulling his polo shirt over his head in the same motion. I’d never seen him in a polo. He kicked his shoes off, instantly at home. I thought to offer him something to drink. I needed a drink. My mouth was dry. I stayed put, but let my eyes follow him through the room. He walked around my bed and peered through the other window, as if he’d find a different view there. He seemed just as pleased by what he found the second time around, then turned back and looked into the room again. I watched him find his bearings. He fit right in. I’d imagined him too large for the space. He was able to reach out and grab a book from wherever he was standing. He sat down at the foot of the bed and let his eyes trail up the shelves, ten feet of books lining the walls all around. Ordering my own books through the bookstore had become a habit. Oliver let his hands glide over the sheets and sighed. I knew they were soft. He let his body follow the path his hands just took and brought his legs up until he was lying across the bed, on top of the sheets. I could see him there at the end of every day, telling me about something he’d read, or seen, or heard on the T on his way home. Then again, if we’d been together we probably wouldn’t be living here. I was well aware, however, that what we’d had all those summers ago could have never lasted. It would have taken a few months, a year at most, for him to get annoyed with me. Long distance and phone calls. I would have picked a school to be near him then, only to find he didn’t have time for me there. Real life would have gotten in the way, as the world is not that little Italian town and the dirt roads surrounding it. He wouldn’t have been open about us, and it would have killed me. I would have ruined it with my youth, my jealousy, by lashing out one too many times. We’d have steered ourselves into the rocks before the winter semester was out. _But what beautiful shipwreck we would have made, Oliver._

Oliver caught me watching him and smiled. It took me two strides to cross the room. I bent over him and watched his face, upside down. I’d been wanting to talk to him for days now. I had arguments lined up and items to check off my list; things to get out of the way. His presence brought such calm though. It didn’t matter. He was here, and it was like he’d always been here. I briefly worried this space might be tainted as well from now on, but those were worries for later. I noticed Oliver was wearing his star of David. It was nestled in the dip between his collarbones, the gold chain hanging loosely behind his neck. I didn’t remember he had it on last I saw him. Maybe he didn’t wear it to work. I still wore mine every day. I’d changed out the chain a couple of times over the years. It dangled in front of Oliver’s face now. He touched it, not to grab and pull, but just to get it out of the way. I bent down and kissed him, the tip of my nose touching his chin. I kissed his chin too. As soon as I pulled back, he smiled again. Upside down, it was more abstract. I’d never watched him like that. His lip curled up over his teeth. He had a very distinct cupid’s bow. With the sun on his face, his eyelashes were so fair. They were also _ridiculous_ , batting down to watch my lips, I supposed. I kissed him again. There was something about having him in my bed, in the middle of the day, that made it feel like a vacation. 

Oliver’s hands lay next to his face, palms up, mine planted firmly on either side of him. It looked like he was surrendering. He felt so very pliant when I kissed him; not raising his chin, lips soft, parting to yield to me. I ran my fingers through his hair, and in return, he ran his hands up the back of my thighs and under my shorts. Kissing upside down was hard to coordinate. I felt like I was waiting for Oliver to come up and meet me, but he didn’t. I ran my hands down his chest while he locked me tightly in place against the bed. His fingertips reached the spot—high on my thighs, between my legs—that was softer and more malleable than the muscle. I sighed and palmed myself through my shorts. I’d planned to take him out to the street fair to get some lunch. I wasn’t hungry anymore. He squeezed my thighs in encouragement. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was he was encouraging, but I felt invited nonetheless. I undid my button and tugged on one end of the closure to unzip. Oliver dragged my shorts down to my knees. He chuckled when my erection jutted out over the waistband. With my shorts on my knees, he let his hands drop back on the bed. It was the most passive provocation I’d seen in a while. His chin raised slightly, challenging me. _Now what, Elio? Your move. Do with me what you like._ I swallowed after noticing my mouth had gone dry from gawking at him. I stroked myself a handful of times while I decided. Eventually, I lay my hand flat on my dick and guided it against his lips. He pursed them. The angle wasn’t perfect, but he opened his mouth without question. I ran the tip over his tongue. He didn’t close his lips around me. He was just there; available. It sent a shiver down my spine. I bent through my knees slightly, trying to make him take more of me. My skin grazed his teeth. He raised his chin more, scuttled his shoulders until the back of his head dropped off the bed. My dick slipped into his mouth uninhibited this time. He still didn’t suck it. I planted my hands flat on his chest and decided to see how far I could push him. I tilted my hips down and let myself slide into his mouth. I took a breath and held it as I pushed further, against the back of his throat. He swallowed around me at first. I paused, watched his legs tighten. I let go of the breath I was holding as I pulled out of him. Oliver’s fists unclenched, his mouth still open. I choked him again, and a third time. I saw the muscles in his stomach clench. His hands stayed by his head. I knew I was taking his air, and it made me dizzy. It was the kind of thing I would have dreamed of when we were together. For him to be powerless under me, even though I was dwarfed by him even more back then than I was now. Knowing that he could push me off at any time, but didn’t, was what got me. 

With my hands flat on his chest, I watched him push his own shorts down far enough to touch himself. It delighted me to see that he was enjoying this too. He was hard, but didn’t start stroking himself. Instead, he fed me his fingers. I sucked them and, as Oliver took them back, pushed back into his mouth. This time I didn’t pull out completely; just enough to let him take a breath before I rolled my hips back down, over and over. Oliver’s right hand dipped into his shorts, below his balls. I knew exactly what he was doing. His other hand finally wrapped around his dick. I closed my eyes, fucking his mouth steadily. I imagined it was his ass I was slipping in and out of. Soft, wet, hot. My face burned. I knew I had to pace myself, promised myself every thrust would be the last before I’d pull out. It was a lie every time. Oliver groaned under me. I took one hand off his chest and placed it around his neck. I felt his throat trying to accommodate me. His hands stalled, and then froze altogether. One shot up towards my thigh and nudged me to slow down. I took half a step back, and Oliver pulled away instinctively. He coughed at first, but it turned into a chuckle. He turned onto his stomach, and then sat up on his knees.

‘Sorry—I’m sorry,’ I whispered. He cocked his head to the side. _Right. No more apologizing._

Oliver wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffed loudly and then coughed again. His eyelashes were wet, and stuck together in clumps. He kissed me, his lips slippery. He worked my shirt over my head, and my shorts further down my legs. They bunched up around my ankles and I tried to step out of them, stumbled, then sat down on the bed. I wanted to laugh at my own clumsiness, but Oliver graciously ignored it. He clearly had other plans for me. I scuttled back against the headboard and upon seeing my socks between his knees, tried to rub them off against my own legs, to no avail. Oliver slipped off the foot of the bed, nimble as ever. I’d never once caught him moving awkwardly, despite his height. He always seemed so perfectly in control of every muscle in his body, as if he’d been practicing them all for years. Even now, pulling both of my socks off in one gesture, dropping his own shorts before crawling back on the bed. I couldn’t let myself think too much about the fact that it was _me_ he was so hungry for. _Me_ he had gotten onto a plane for. _Me_ he was skipping a shower, lunch, the street fair for. Oliver knelt between my legs, caressed my balls and wrapped a hand firmly around the base of my dick. He bent down and took the tip in his mouth. He planted his hands on either side of me, looked up once, then closed his eyes as he began sucking me. I gritted my teeth. He was wet, and sloppy, and perfect. I tried to remind myself not to moan too loudly, because my windows were open. Then again, the noise outside would probably drown me out; I could tell people were starting to pour onto the market a street away.

He sucked my dick in his own rhythm, with his own pleasure in mind. I reached out to touch his hair, brushed it to the side. Oliver glanced up and smiled, hollowed his cheeks and forced his own head down. 

‘ _Ahh_ — Oliver,’ I hissed. 

He came back up, smiled, and swallowed me again. Not only did I not need to apologize, he wanted _more_. At this angle, his throat was tighter, and I could tell it was more uncomfortable. He almost gagged when his nose touched my abdomen, but he simply sat back a little, inhaled through his nose, and went down on me again. I tried to keep my hips on the mattress. I started to imagine coming against the back of his throat, and tried to come up with a scenario where I could do that and still get him off. I’d had no defense the first time he gave me a blowjob. It was a mess. At seventeen, I could count the blowjobs I’d received on one hand, and only once had I gotten one unprompted. Then there was Oliver, who’d sucked my dick more times in one week than anyone had my lifetime, and actually enjoyed it. He asked for nothing in return. I was actually surprised I could remember anything else from that summer, because I must have been mainly running on adrenaline and testosterone. If I’d fallen in love with him solely for sucking my dick then that was as valid a reason as any. Oliver’s shoulders tightened as he gagged again. He decided I was wet and hard enough, taking away the need for a backup plan. He sat up on his knees and climbed out from between my legs, straddling me. He leaned in for a kiss. I wiped his mouth. When he sat back again, he towered over me. He reached back between his legs and stroked my erection a handful of times before lowering himself onto it. He fumbled around a little, so I tried to steady myself for him. How long had it been since someone had him like this? Had he casually mentioned to his wife that he was into assplay, or had that boat sailed twenty years ago? Maybe he had gone elsewhere to find that. Either way, he was on top of _me_ now.

‘Wait—I have—‘ I offered. I didn’t want to break the spell but he could clearly use some help. I produced a tub of vaseline from my bedside table and opened it for him. It was half-empty, but Oliver probably wasn’t going to stop and ask me who’d scooped out the other half and on what occasion. ‘Here.’ He dipped two fingers in and mumbled something. He used the vaseline on himself and ran the head of my dick between his fingers to spread what was leftover on me. He stroked me a couple more times, not that I needed it. He positioned himself over me again and sat down slowly. He looked me straight in the face, and I could read the moment I breached him; his gaze went right through me. His jaw jutted out and the frown between his brows deepened. He let out a breath when his ass rested in my lap. The poise he usually had was gone. Again, I resisted the urge to thrust upwards. Oliver took his time. I ran both hands up his thighs and angled my hips back just a little, giving him the last couple of inches too. His head dropped to his chest, and he leaned forward to plant his hands next to my head. He chuckled and immediately groaned.

‘ _Fuck_. I’m out of practice,’ he mumbled. Evidently, it _had_ been too long. 

Impaling himself this way around proved more difficult. Oliver’s knees pressed into my sides, his arms supporting him, his face hovering over mine.

‘You okay?’

Oliver nodded. I raised my hips a little as he came down this time.

‘Fuck me,’ he muttered. It didn’t sound too convincing. ‘Fuck me, Elio,’ he repeated. 

I hesitated, kissed him, and smoothed my hands down his sides. I brought my hips up again, and in one smooth motion, rolled them down. I tried to keep my composure for Oliver. _Look at his face, Elio. His eyelashes, his lips. His brow still furrowed. Don’t focus on being inside him, all the way inside. Wet, hot, tight—so fucking tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ass. Thighs. Face._ I opened my mouth and dragged in a ragged breath. Oliver dropped his head against my neck, face pressed into my skin, breathing against my shoulder. I held it there. With his chest on mine, he arched his back into my thrusts. I watched the curve of his ass, and the line where his hip met his thigh. I ran my thumb over it and rested my whole hand on his ass. I did what he asked; I fucked him. Slowly at first, and when he didn’t protest, a little faster. The sounds he made against my skin sent me into a frenzy. His arm had wrapped underneath my neck, locking himself in place. He kissed me and bit me.

It had never been like this. Sure, I’d fucked him before. But I’d never been able to fuck him with anything else in mind than the fact that I was really inside him and he was really letting me do this. 

I remembered watching his face underneath me on my yellow sheets—which we really should have switched out once or twice—and coming inside him, with no regard for him or anything else around me. It felt good, knowing that I could make him feel like this. He moaned, and I couldn’t quite work out if it was in pleasure or agony, but his body told me not to stop. And I didn’t want to. He ground his hips down onto mine with every thrust. I couldn’t decide what was better: pulling out so only the tip of my dick was inside, or burying myself completely. I could feel myself falter. After all, he had already been sucking me for what seemed like forever earlier. I scratched the back of his neck and and kissed whatever skin I could reach. 

‘Oliver— You’re gonna make me come,’ I breathed. I tried to pace myself a little. 

‘Fuck me, fuck me,’ Oliver insisted. ‘Come.’ 

He repeated it a few times. My breath hitched in my throat and I tried to hold out a little longer, but I was coming. Oliver’s fingers dug into my neck. I couldn’t focus on anything but pumping in and out of him, my grip on his ass tightening. I bit his shoulder as I came inside of him. I gave him a handful of thrusts, slowing down until my hips stuttered to a halt. I hissed. He raised himself up, planted a hand firmly in the middle of my chest and started stroking himself quickly, his thumb flicking at the tip of his erection. He rode me slowly, lifting himself an inch every time. He cupped his balls in the palm of his hand, his fingers stretching to feel me inside him. I felt his orgasm before I saw it. He clenched down on me, uncomfortably tight, and came over his hand and my chest. He uttered a series of sighs, and finally a moan, as if he was disappointed it was over already. 

‘Holy shit,’ I concluded after a few beats. Oliver tried to catch his breath, leaning all his weight on me. He chuckled at my brief summary, twitched at how his body reacted and mouthed another series of curse words. He finally let himself topple off me. He kissed me on the cheek, holding his one hand awkwardly out of the way. I laughed. ‘Wait, I’ll get you something.’

I reluctantly got up from the bed and pattered to the bathroom. I wiped myself down with some toilet paper, refreshed with some cold water and washed my hands. I had some color in my face, and my hair looked a mess. I smiled at my reflection; he looked happy. I brought Oliver the roll of toilet paper. He cleaned himself up. 

‘Just throw it on the floor. ‘ He did. I got a bottle of water from the fridge and drank from it, standing in the sunlight that streamed in through the window. The curtained billowed outwards. A branch of my plant swayed in the breeze. It appeared to lean in Oliver's direction. I _was_ happy here. 

‘Play me something?’ Oliver gestured towards my piano. I shrugged, wiping my mouth. I hadn’t played in ages.

‘The neighbors complain,’ I explained.

‘Oh, come on. Five minutes?’ 

I sighed, handed him the bottle and sat down on the little bench. The warm leather stuck to my skin. I took the first sheet that was in front of me and started playing, but decided it was a little too heavy for the mood. I went through the other couple of sheets that I had in front of me, but found nothing more suitable. I rested my hands on the keys and tried to come up with something else. I played a few tentative notes, the rest came naturally. It was something I’d heard over and over on the radio. 

‘That sounds familiar. Do I know it?’ Oliver’s voice sounded even deeper than usual, and when I turned around I saw that he had sunk into my pillow. I thought for a moment and replayed the melody in my head. 

‘I think that was Avril Lavigne,’ I confessed. Oliver snorted. ‘Do you wanna take a shower and grab some lunch?’

‘I wanna take a nap.’

Looking at him, I kinda wanted a nap too.

 

I woke up before Oliver. I found his face close to mine. He was still far away. I watched his curled eyelashes, his parted lips, the dimple in his forehead. I could let him sleep. Just go to the reading, pick him up later. He’d seen the whole thing anyway, read the book. I leaned in to smell his skin. He wrinkled his nose when my hair tickled his face. I looked at his shoulders, his chest, the scar on his stomach. His tanned hands with their pale nails. Same with his feet. I didn’t care about feet, but I cared about his. I kissed his cheek, inhaling him again. He sighed and turned on his back. I kissed him again. He brought a hand up between us and held it out in front of his face, palm turned up. 

‘What’s that? Talk to the hand?’

‘Five minutes,’ he groaned.

I kissed his hand and got up. 

‘You can take your time, I’m just gonna go ahead and see if I can help,’ I explained. I stretched. I felt a little light on my feet. Oliver hummed in response. ‘So I’m just gonna, you know, take a shower,’ I teased, ‘all alone.’ No reply. Oliver smiled, still not opening his eyes. I decided I’d sown enough seeds and got in the shower. Oliver didn’t join me. When I got back in the room, he was asleep again, this time in the middle of the bed, hogging both pillows. I took my time getting dressed, not threading particularly lightly around the bed, but it didn’t stir him. He was fast asleep. I really needed to leave. I penned the address to the store on a post-it and added a small sketch of the street. It was really just around the corner. I stuck it to the doorframe and left.

 

Abe had pretty much done all the work when I got the store. He had amassed all the chairs he could find. They were as mismatched as the wine glasses he had set up on the counter. It had something. 

Like when Oliver and I had stumbled upon a wedding in the old town of Moscazzano. He was supposed to drive me to a pool party; my dad had suggested it. We’d been avoiding each other for a few days, and he had clearly felt something was amiss. He’d made up an emergency which kept him from driving me. I knew there were no emergencies of any kind during our summer holidays, but had kept my mouth shut. Oliver would drive me down after dinner, I’d sleep over and find my way back the next morning. It was a twenty-minute ride, and after about five minutes, Oliver had made a comment about my bare feet. Pool party, I’d told him. No need for shoes. He’d asked me about me and the girl. I’d replied too quickly and denied any interest in her too vehemently. She was a childhood friend, acquaintance even. I was going just to be polite. Although Moscazzano was usually a quiet town, we’d ran into a wedding on one of its small piazzas. There was a large company of people sitting at a long table. They weren’t eating anymore, but it seemed like their night was far from over. I’d jokingly said I’d rather join them than go to the party, and before we knew it we were being waved over. They made room for us on one of the benches and poured us both a glass of wine. Oliver had turned it down, but his objections were drowned by laughter. Our side of the table got a kick out of making Oliver say things in English, calling him a Hollywood star. You’d have to look far and wide for a movie that wasn’t dubbed, so he could have been naming ingredients for egg salad for all they knew. Some had called him James Dean, but the lady right next to him insisted he possessed a more classic beauty, like Paul Newman. I was happy to be sitting thigh to thigh with him, getting praise for crashing the wedding with a _muvi star_. When Oliver had emptied his third glass of wine he turned to me, holding it out, asking if it was a Nutella jar. I’d explained they had probably just raided their kitchens for any glassware they didn’t care about. Nutella jars and mustard glasses with cartoons on them were very popular around the table. Mine had a Smurf. 

None of the glasses in the bookstore had Smurfs on them. Abe was wearing his good shirt. The door of the store was wide open, and people were already trickling in. I poured myself a glass of water and offered Abe one too. He held up his glass of wine. 

‘Ready? Nervous? I think it’s gonna be full,’ he muttered, more to reassure himself than anything else. I wasn’t nervous.

‘Well we need to save one seat, because I invited someone,’ I joked. 

‘Oh? Is Martha coming?’

Abe had loved Martha. In all honesty, he’d probably grown more attached to her than I had. We’d lived together, but she’d moved away for work, without me. I’d spent months explaining that it wasn’t a breakup. Half of a couple moving out was never a good sign though. We’d kept up long distance for almost a year. I got good at packing and saying goodbye. 

‘Not Martha,’ I smiled. ’An old friend.’ 

The bookstore filled up, but no sign of Oliver. Maybe he was still asleep. It was okay; I could just go back to my place to pick him up afterward. I was more disappointed than I’d expected to be though. The store was full already, and as soon as word spread that there was free wine to be had, it got really crowded. People were standing in the doorway, attracting the attention of people on the market. Abe made sure that everyone who wanted to get in got in, and got a drink. The chair I had saved in the front found an occupant, and I started my reading. I enjoyed the loud audience. Everyone was relaxed. Some people were talking, but they still listened and managed to laugh at the appropriate time. Oliver didn’t show up. 

 

I stood behind the counter, signing some copies after the reading. There was no chair for me there. From the corner of my eye, I noticed someone come in, almost ducking under the doorway. My subconscious had his built and movement imprinted on it. For years, my heart would skip a beat when I felt someone of his posture near me. I looked up, and Oliver raised a hand at me. He was wearing a fresh change of clothes, and his wet hair was neatly combed back. He held two cups of coffee. He slowly made his way through the store, raising both cups to his chest to keep from spilling them. 

‘Hi,’ he greeted when he finally reached me. ‘Full house!’

‘Yeah, not a bad turnout,’ I admitted. It probably had less to do with me than with the fair and the free booze. 

‘Are you kidding me? I got here twenty minutes ago, there was no getting in,’ he explained enthusiastically. ‘Your coffee is probably a little cold by now.’ He put the cup down, and rested his free hand in the middle of the counter. He leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. His size quickly caught Abe’s attention, who shuffled towards us from the front of the store. I went to introduce him, but Oliver was quicker. ‘Oliver, nice to meet you,’ he beamed. He put his own coffee down to shake the tubby old man’s hand. Abe eagerly did so.

‘Oliver! The boy from Italy,’ he replied immediately. He held his arms out to underline the word ‘boy’. Oliver was twice his size. ‘We carry your books, come! Come!’ They left me. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t remember mentioning Oliver to him, but apparently, I must have. I thought I’d been sly, feigning an interest in philosophy. 

Abe took Oliver around the bookstore, showing him the entire collection. I saw Oliver laugh a few times at his stories. I hoped nothing too embarrassing. Oliver did a good part of the talking too, and I knew Abe didn’t have to pretend to be interested. They were sure to find some topics. 

The store finally emptied. Oliver had started clearing away chairs, but Abe stopped him. He insisted we went out and enjoyed our evening. The fair for Saint Anthony’s Feast was about as traditional as deep dish pizza. Most of the stalls could also be found on your average Christmas market. The only real difference was that here you could occasionally find an Italian salami. I walked in silence, Oliver doing most of the talking. He spoke of Abe as he had of my father. I could tell he liked him a lot. Abe liked anyone I brought along, but the fact that he’d finally found a new subject to interrogate about the German philosophers had apparently satisfied him greatly. The Catholic holiday had led them straight back to Dante. Only Oliver could discuss Dante and not fall into drudgery. We slowed down our stroll. Oliver let his hand glide over the multi-colored scarves in one stall. They were advertised as pure silk, but I doubted it. He obviously didn’t care. He seemed to consider a vibrant purple one. I stood by, the smells of different kinds of food making me more hungry by the minute. His eye then fell on a pale blue scarf. The owner of the stall had been eyeing us from the moment Oliver started touching her stuff, and she appeared in front of us to close the deal. Pure silk, she repeated. Handwoven, too. She didn’t give away where the scarves had been handwoven, but probably not in Italy. Oliver paid for the scarf, and the woman held open a little plastic bag for him to take it. He thanked her, and we continued walking. 

‘I’m starving,’ he groaned. No comment about the scarf. So it wasn’t a present for his mother then. Was his wife the kind of woman who wore pale blue scarves? Did she also wear pearls and a sensible haircut that never seemed to move? Or white capri pants when it was sunny out, but not too warm? Rich, handsome husband, two beautiful sons. I looked at Oliver, trying to figure out what type of husband he was. She clearly wasn’t the type of wife who liked bright purples. I did. Oliver’s face broke out in a grin, flashing his teeth. ‘What?’

I could have gone with ‘nothing’, but I didn’t.

‘Do you think your wife will like it?’ I asked him. His lips closed over his teeth, but his smile didn’t fade. He looked ahead. He didn’t reply. ‘Tell me about her, please,’ I requested. I tried to come across more friendly. He bought into it. 

‘I think she’ll like it,’ he eventually decided. ‘She’s going to the beach with her mother and the boys next week,’ he then went on. He thought for a moment. ‘I think you’d like her, she—‘

‘Then maybe I don’t want to hear about her,’ I interrupted him. I was sure she was a lovely person, and it would make me envy her more. It had been a while since this side of me had risen to the surface, but it was not unfamiliar. I knew I had asked him about her only to be able to undercut him. I could be cruel when I was jealous. Oliver huffed and laughed. I didn't have to ask him this time. Water off a duck’s back. 

We stopped at one of the more traditional food stalls and decided on some fried baby octopus. They served it in a cone. Oliver held it as we walked on, I poked a little fork in it every now and then. 

‘So what’s Saint Anthony patron of anyway?’ Oliver finally asked. 

‘Um—Lisbon, because that’s where he’s from. Protector of lost items, lost people, lost souls,’ I summed up. Oliver raised an eyebrow. ‘Also, horses, I think,’ I added, scratching the back of my head. He snorted. He tipped the octopus in my direction again, but I shook my head.

‘Full already?’

‘No mortal heart was ever so well fed,’ I quoted. It took a few beats before Oliver laughed.

‘I’m not sure Dante was talking about fried seafood,’ he then replied. The way he jokingly enunciated the last two words told me he didn’t hold a grudge against me for shooting him down. That was another one of my traits; I was easily forgiven.

‘Hm, not sure. Maybe time to open that discussion,’ I joked. 

We tried to find more passages about food, tossing lines about the sea and hunger back and forth. We didn’t get very far with those limitations, but laughed every time one of us found something that could remotely support the thesis that Dante wrote the final part of his Divina Commedia about calamari. We strayed from seafood, and passed over vegetarianism and goats grazing. At the same time, we circled over the fair and headed back in the direction of my place. I couldn’t imagine anyone else in this world I could have this conversation with. Oliver obviously agreed, because he left the food discourse altogether. He just started naming his favorite cantos, most of which seemed to come out of Paradiso. 

‘We’ve left the greatest of material spheres, rising to light, pure light of intellect, all love, the love of good in truth, all happiness, a happiness transcending every rapture,’ he perfectly recited. The way he delivered the lines, I believed them. It sounded like he’d come up with them on the spot. I suddenly didn’t care about his wife, or about the last twenty years she’d had with him, to my disadvantage. She didn’t have this. I kissed Oliver where I could reach; my lips hit his neck and some collar of his polo shirt. 

‘But now my will and my desire were turned, as wheels that move in equilibrium, by love that moves the sun and other stars,’ I tried, hooking my arm in his. It didn’t come across as spontaneous as I’d hoped. He held the food out of the way and kissed the side of my head.

‘You should fuck me again,’ Oliver then hummed, taking advantage of our closeness and counting on the hubbub around us to drown out his voice. 

‘I don’t remember that verse,’ I retorted. I tried to keep my voice as steady as possible. I was wearing dangerously loose shorts, and my crotch twitched. Oliver nodded knowingly.

‘That’s the difference between a professional and a layman,’ he spoke. ‘That’s Canto XV from Dirty Dante.’ I cackled. He seemed pleased to have made me laugh, but quickly turned more serious. ‘These words of mine may seem perhaps too bold, slighting the pleasure of those lovely eyes, in which, when gazing, my desires all rest,’ he went on. There clearly was a difference between a professional and a layman, because I had about exhausted my relevant cantos, and Oliver was still on a roll. ‘So, do me again?’ 

I shivered. I had one more, wildly out of context.

‘With all my heart, and with that tongue.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for all the comments! I pinky promise I will reply to them at some point. If only I wasn't so slow. At this rate I'll be finished around Christmas!
> 
> You can listen to my spotify playlist here: https://spoti.fi/2yBmK43


	4. Kleio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Clio, the muse of history, is as thoroughly infected with lies as a street whore with syphilis.' - Arthur Schopenhauer, 'Parerga und Paralipomena'
> 
> Kleio (Clio) is the muse of history.
> 
> Elio wonders if his memory is lying to him.

 

The weekend after the feast, when the stalls had all been cleared away, I took Oliver out to wander around the streets near my apartment. I told him there was one storefront I could look at for hours, and I did every time I passed and the rolling shutters happened to be up. You couldn’t call it an antique shop, because some of the stuff was as recent as the eighties. The entire window was filled with bric-à-brac. You’d probably need to a good eye to find something of real value. Every time I looked, I found something new, but I’d never actually set foot in the store. You needed to ring the doorbell to enter, which always turned out to be too big of a threshold. The owner clearly didn’t spend his entire day in all this dust. Oliver and I looked at small porcelain horses, miniatures, Art Deco earrings. I wondered out loud who the people in the old picture frames were, and how many generations it took for your family to sell your portraits because the frames were worth more to them. Oliver figured two would suffice. I distracted myself from that thought by pointing out a small painted figurine of a pigeon with one foot. It looked over its shoulder. The thing wasn’t bigger than a fingernail.

‘Cher Ami,’ I told him.

‘Yes, cheri?’

I laughed and pulled him closer. It was weird how normal this felt; holding his forearm, using his own hand to point out the pigeon.

‘No, Cher Ami,’ I repeated. ‘A war hero.’ Oliver snorted and peered at the little bird. I’d wondered before if he needed reading glasses and was just too proud to admit it.

‘It’s a pigeon,’ he concluded.

‘Yeah, he got shot in World War One and still flew twenty-five miles. Saved almost two-hundred lives,’ I explained. ‘They even made him a little wooden leg after he lost one.’ He laughed at that.

‘Do you want it? I’ll buy it,’ he offered. He was already two steps towards the door, he read the sign and rang the doorbell. This wasn’t a threshold for him.

‘No, Oliver, I just like looking at these things.’

‘But you like it,’ he shrugged. ‘How much can it be?’ It took a moment before anything seemed to move inside the little store. The owner opened the door for us in two sharp tugs—the metal frame grazed over the stone floor.

‘Come in, come in,’ he urged, as if we were silly to have rung, and the door had been open all this time. ‘Take a look around.’ The entire store was filled with items, all of them smaller than an espresso cup.

‘Actually, we’ve got our sights set on that little pigeon in the window,’ Oliver just told him. His voice felt too loud for the small store, but it didn’t seem to offend the man at all. He put his glasses on his nose and shuffled towards the front of the store, in the corner where Oliver pointed him. He didn’t see it. Oliver made a sound that resembled ‘may I?’ and leaned over him to pick the figurine out of the window. He turned around and dropped it in my hand. 

‘It’s heavy,’ I noticed. I closed my hand and opened it again, showing the older man. He peered at it.

‘Ah, Vienna bronze,’ he told me. He picked Cher Ami from my hand and looked at him, held him up between two fingers. ‘Cold painted bronze. Some of these go for hundreds of dollars,’ he explained. I shot Oliver a warning glance; if it was hundreds of dollars, I didn’t want it. ‘This one’s missing a foot though. I have some cats that are in better shape.’

‘No, no, he really likes the pigeon,’ Oliver spoke for me.

‘The pigeon is twenty-five,’ he told Oliver, ignoring me. Oliver took out his wallet, gave the man a twenty—although he clearly had more cash and nodded. The man nodded back. He was pleased, Oliver told me after. He would have taken ten. Cher Ami lived on my window sill.

 

Oliver just kept showing up. He spent his weeks in New York, and his weekends in my bed, in Boston. I stopped worrying about him tainting my apartment. He came on Friday a couple of times, and spent the afternoon in the bookstore with me and Abe. He’d never announce himself, because he knew he’d be welcome. He’d take a cab from the airport and arrive with three coffees. Abe would tell us we could leave, but we’d stay, Oliver reading in the light at the window, Abe and I in the back. August became September, and his summer seminar ended. He wasn’t teaching. He didn’t explain why he didn’t go home. Research, he told me. A break, to come up with fresh ideas—so I wrote, and he read. His family never came up. He didn’t mention his wife again, and I didn’t ask. I was living from weekend to weekend to weekend, feeling like we could somehow hold on to summer, realizing it would soon be over, but hoping that maybe, if we pretended nothing ever changed, the universe would play along. It was always hard to imagine in summer that the days would get shorter again, and it would get colder, and snow. It was similar to how I’d always had a hard time imagining how much new music or how many new films would come out in my lifetime, when everything already felt so _full_. My two favorite times to flee the States were the end of September, to keep the summer a little longer, and the end of March, to get a head start. The last two times I’d picked Oliver up from the airport, it had been pouring, and he’d jumped in my car with dark spots on his shirt, leaned over the middle console and kissed me on the cheek. The rain would sometimes smell like the sea, and after getting caught in the rain once, Oliver had tasted like it too.

It was the end of September when Oliver and I were in bed, in the middle of the day. He’d have to leave soon, so we were just wasting time. The window was open because it was raining, and Oliver liked the smell too. We’d gone to bed naked, had breakfast naked, got back into bed naked. I didn’t know what time it was and, frankly, it didn’t matter. We’d been like this for a while now, because my laptop was making frightening sounds and it was scalding my thighs. I enjoyed it. Oliver was facing the other way on his stomach, chin leaning against the edge of the mattress. His arms hung off the bed, his book on the floor. I’d stopped typing a while ago, but he hadn’t noticed. I rested a hand on the sole of his foot, my touch firm enough not to tickle him. Oliver still jogged, wore frayed sneakers that offered as much support as a thick sock at this point, but his feet remained soft and pink. Mine were always calloused where needed. It didn’t matter how much I scrubbed or exfoliated. And if they were soft, I’d inevitably get blisters where my feet expected callouses. Oliver had told me it didn’t matter, kissed them. I ran my hand up his heel, over his ankle, felt the muscle in his calf. I rested my fingers in the dip in the middle of his leg. He didn’t stir. I closed my laptop and put it aside, then firmly planted a foot on Oliver’s left butt cheek.

‘ _God_ ,’ he complained. ‘Your feet are freezing!’ I cackled as he looked over his shoulder, an offended frown creasing his forehead. I could tell my feet were much colder than the soft flesh under my toes, but I never cared much. When my feet got cold, they were cold. I could be wearing socks or have them shoved under a blanket. They’d remain cold. I guessed it was already that time of year. Oliver reached back and covered most of my foot with the palm of his hand, attempting to warm it despite my explanation that it was futile, and he’d just have to wait until spring for me to have warm feet again. He then noticed I’d set my laptop down. He rolled onto his side, my foot slipping down to the bed. 

‘Hey, you,’ I greeted him. It was like I hadn’t seen him in hours, even though he’d been right next to me all this time. My leg was draped over his thigh now, so he reached a hand between my legs and ran a finger over the crease where thigh met ass. _Time for a break_ , it told me. Oliver turned around, legs now hanging off the edge of the bed and rested his cheek on the inside of my thigh. He closed his eyes, turned his face against my skin and sighed. I messed up his hair. I put a hand on my other thigh to feel what he was feeling; the surface of my skin was hot from my laptop, like I’d been sitting out in the sun for too long. Burning but not caring enough to move, until finally I got too sleepy and moved inside for a nap, fully charged, glowing.

On my thigh, Oliver’s mouth had opened. He was biting me gently, hand moving towards my groin. I loved how we could casually slip in and out of this mood now. It wasn’t rushed anymore. We didn’t fuck every day we were together, because maybe we didn’t feel like we were on a deadline.

A terrifying drone suddenly filled the room. Oliver’s head shot up, as if he’d been dozing. It took me a moment to recognize the noise it as my phone, vibrating against the coffee table. It made a coffee cup tinkle. I lifted my leg over Oliver’s head as I jumped up. He shot me a glance. _Must you? Just ignore it. Let it ring_. I leaned over the table, fully prepared not to answer the phone when I saw it was my mother. I picked up. 

‘Mom, hi.’

‘Hi, darling. How are you? I never hear from you.’ She told me that almost weekly. She barely gave me the chance to call her first.

‘I’m good, really good,’ I assured her. ‘What’s up?’ Oliver watched me amusedly. He was ready for me to come back to bed. I was ready to join him. Sundays were for catching up though. She’d brag about the weather and I’d complain about it. 

‘I have some news,’ she started.

‘Oh?’

‘Giuseppe and I have decided to sell the house, darling,’ she added the darling because she knew I’d be angry. The way she swallowed the ‘r’ usually soothed me, but not this time.

‘What? You can’t do that,’ I protested. I heard her sigh. She must have known this was coming. I was almost forty, but still her son, and still a brat at times.

‘It would be a big weight off our shoulders,’ she defended herself. Ever since she’d met Giuseppe, they decided things as a team. I’d been angry at first, although I did want her to be happy. Giuseppe was a fifty-something from Turin she’d met on a weekend away there. He was twelve years her junior, still had dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, and a beard to match. His beard always reminded me of my father’s. Maybe that had been what had drawn her to him in the first place. She’d moved to Turin for him, and visits to our house had become less frequent. I knew all that. I just never thought that, at some point, it wouldn’t be there.

‘I can help,’ I offered. Financially, be there more often, undertake some projects to get it up to date.

‘Darling, it needs a lot of love. More love than we can give it,’ she said. ‘It—needs to go to someone who can be there all the time, with kids to enjoy the garden.’ I could tell that was a jab at me. I swallowed. ‘It needs a new roof, new windows, the facade needs redoing. It eats money in winter,’ she went on. I could tell she spoke of the villa from a distance already.

‘ _Maman_ ,’ I tried. I heard my own voice break a little. She barely ever spoke French since meeting Giuseppe. Maybe it would help her remember.

‘Tesoro,’ she sighed. Her mind was made up. The house was going. She was just calling to let me know. When she realized I had no further arguments, she continued: ‘The realtor is showing people around next week. He said they love it. If they take it, we’ll put your stuff in storage until you can come over,’ she went on practically. 

‘Okay.’

‘Okay? I’ll call you later to let you know,’ she assured me.

‘Okay.’

I threw my phone back on the table.

‘What?’ Oliver immediately asked. 

‘Mom is selling the house,’ I told him. My heart was in my throat. This was the worst part. I could never take him back there. He sighed.

‘Maybe it’s time for her to let it go,’ he said. I wasn’t in the mood for a rational conversation. Of course my mother missed my father. Of course the house would always be theirs, and Giuseppe could never sit at the head of the breakfast table. But I was still angry. I was hurt. It felt like seasickness; the one thing I thought I could always fall back on, suddenly wasn’t a certainty. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me.

‘ _I_ don’t want to let it go,’ I replied, perhaps too strongly. Oliver sat up and blinked at me. This wasn’t an argument I needed to be having with him. It would have been far more productive to have told my mom on the phone.

‘Well, it’s not your choice,’ he replied. ‘And maybe it’s good that she’s making this choice for you.’

‘I can make my own decisions, Oliver.’ I picked a pair of boxer shorts from the floor and put them on; I didn’t want to be naked anymore. They were not mine. I closed the window.

‘Can you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ It came out squeaky so I clenched my jaw. Maybe he had an explanation.

‘You haven’t made a decision since you came here for college,’ Oliver started.

‘What?’

‘Be honest with yourself. It’s—it’s like you’re stranded at the airport,’ he blurted.

‘What?’ I repeated. I narrowed my eyes at him in a childish expression. I knew this, and still did it.

‘It’s like your flight is canceled, and they gave you some coupons, and you’ve just settled on a bench, waiting for the next flight home. You don’t ask for anything. You don’t look for updates. You don’t get angry. You’re just _waiting_. And you’ve been waiting for twenty years, Elio,’ he bore into me. Only he pronounced my name like that, with the first syllable closed. 

‘Waiting for you, you mean.’ He clearly thought very highly of himself.

‘I don’t know what you’re waiting for,’ he cried, exasperated. ‘But you’re complacent—indolent,’ he corrected himself. That stung, and he could tell. He didn’t let off though. He and I had never fought like this; we didn’t know the rules. I knew that, if anyone, Oliver was close enough to hit me where it hurt. ‘I just always hoped—‘ he started, softer.

‘You hoped I was fine so you wouldn’t have to feel bad about the decisions _you_ made,’ I finished his thought. If he’d been building on me, his foundations were as rocky as mine. ‘Yet you’re here, and not at home. Where _is_ your wife, Oliver?’ Two could play this game. I watched the hurt settle on his lips. It wasn’t a very fun game. 

‘We’re in the middle of a divorce,’ he immediately admitted. I didn’t feel sorry for making him tell me. He’d had plenty of opportunities. ‘I left. I haven’t seen my boys in—I don’t know. They don’t want to see me. My lawyer told me only to contact them when they initiate. She makes them call me once a week,’ Oliver said evenly. He was a different Oliver when he talked about them. He was controlled, like he needed to take on a different persona in this context and he had spent the last twenty years hammering it in. His voice was low and flat, the usual spring in his intonation missing. Maybe, over time, this was more the real him than the Oliver I thought I knew. I snorted. It was involuntary, but I did. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting.

‘Some decisions you’ve made,’ I spat at him. It was cruel of me to kick him when he was down. He knew this part of me, in moderation. I hadn’t been looking for a rational conversation, and I clearly wasn’t about to start one now.

Oliver got up and shook his head. He blindly started picking up items of clothing and tossed them in his weekend bag. He packed books, stuff he’d left over time. Every once in a while he picked something up and put it on, gradually getting dressed.

‘What? No more advice for me?’ His silence did nothing to calm me down. He should have shouted at me, hit me even. Just to shut me up. I deserved it. ‘At least I didn’t decide to drag kids into this mess too, Oliver.’ His head shot up.

‘Yes, I have to give you that one, Elio. You’ve done a _great_ job at dragging absolutely no one into this.’ He stepped into his loafers and swung his bag over his shoulder, door already in hand. It was too early to leave for the airport. He was going anyway. ‘Do you have any more advice for me, maybe?’ He finally looked up at me again. His breathing was labored, and not from bending down and getting up repeatedly; he was in good shape. He was giving me a shot to redeem myself and admit that what he’d told me was true.

‘No,’ I simply said. He rolled his eyes and yanked the door open, started down the stairs. I watched him go until he reached the floor below me, and then closed the door.

My heart was thudding in my chest, reminding me how much I cared. I didn’t want to.

It felt like a break-up I’d been owed for twenty years. If only my parents had not allowed us to be together, so I would have had someone to be angry at. Or if only we’d found out we were completely incompatible after six months, or a year. Just to be able to casually tell people about what a shit show we were, and laugh about it. Real people didn’t get hung up like this, did they? This was the stuff of books and movies, operas and myths. Gods held grudges and came down with a ruse to fuck people over. Then again, I’d spent most of my time in fictional worlds. It was only natural that I took after them instead of after my parents. My parents had lovingly called me their happy little accident, and I never took offense, but it was true. They were two people who never meant to have children, had me, and found a spot for me without changing their lives all too much. They were not bad parents. On the contrary; I’d had a beautiful, careless childhood. But I was around adults a lot, and I was lonely before I even knew what that meant. There was a reason I still preferred my own company above anyone else’s. In a way, they had made it inevitable for me to fall for someone like him. An Oliver-shaped opening was left in our home, and he had slotted right in. Finally, a brother. I never wanted him to leave. I still didn’t want him to leave.

 

I wore Oliver’s boxer shorts all day, until I took a bath in the evening. I put too much bubblebath in, and when I leaned back, the foam crackled in my ears. I looked up at the ceiling and realized the mildew had consumed the faun. There was just a cloud above my head now. Not a lot I could do with that. I closed my eyes instead.

I got into bed after my bath, and hoarded all three of my pillows into my arms as I lay on my stomach. One was mine, one smelled like Oliver. He usually put the third between his knees when he went to sleep, only to kick it out from under the sheets in the middle of the night. I buried my face in them. My feet were warm.

I fell asleep with all the lights on, and woke up only to turn them off. I slept with one leg out. I dreamed about things I’d thought I’d long forgotten. About our kiss on the berm and how afterward, I’d felt at ease touching him. Suddenly all of his skin was available to me. The palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. The pale insides of his forearms with deep blue veins running over his wrists. I’d perhaps gotten too comfortable even, and remembered the looks on my parents’ faces when I’d touched his foot at the dinner table. We’d been sitting outside for hours, and the table had been cleared for ages, save for our glasses. Oliver was the only one still in shorts. We all wore pants at dinner, and long sleeves. Not because it was cold, but because of the mosquitoes. My father had been telling us about his time studying in the States, a story I heard every year. Oliver listened intently, his mouth opening wide every time he laughed. I’d already suppressed the urge to slip a finger in, like he’d done to me. I was proud of myself for that. He was fidgeting with his feet, reaching under the table every now and then to swat away one of the small mosquitoes that were feasting on our ankles. After a while, he’d pulled his foot out of his espadrille and put it on the edge of my chair, inspecting the damage. There was a row of pale bumps on his ankle. He’d grimaced and started scratching, but I’d pulled his hand away and pressed the nail of my thumb into each bump twice, drawing little crosses. My dad never stopped talking, so when I instinctively licked my thumb to put some spit on the bites and blew on them, I thought I was unobserved. In reality, my parents had both been gaping at me.

‘Diverts the body’s attention,’ I’d explained. ‘I read it somewhere.’ I’d called him ‘the body’ to seem general and distant. I realized now no one ever bought that. 

Some dreams my mind had strung together from different memories, and offered them to me as one. Oliver and I shoveling snow from the front of the house to the gate. I knew for a fact that never happened, but it seemed so vivid. I felt the cold burn on my hands and the thumping in my fingertips as Oliver warmed them for me. That one probably had something to do with my cold feet earlier. In another one, Oliver and I were squeezed together in my old reading nook. In winter, I loved sitting in the space between the two doors to my bedroom. I’d wrap a blanket around my shoulders and put a reading light between my legs. Mafalda had told me off countless times, and my father had told me to leave a note on the door if I was in there. I never did. My mind had inserted Oliver in this memory. I couldn’t have been older than twelve, because that was around the time my legs became too long and my shoulders too wide to fit in the tight space. I had my legs pulled close to my body, Oliver sitting across from me in the same way. It was dark, and I couldn’t make out his face, probably because I didn’t know what he’d looked like as a twelve-year-old. Neither of us had a book, because there was no room to hold it; we sat toe to toe. While some things were vague, others were as clear as day. His socked foot on mine, the cool draft coming from under the door, how warm my cheeks were.

The warmth was explained when I woke up. I had covered myself from head to toe with my heavy duvet. With the window open, the fresh air that came in through the one gap in my blanket felt frosty. I knew that it was early, and I could either make myself a cup of tea and go back to sleep, or make myself a cup of coffee and settle in for a long Monday. I realized that, if my brain was awake enough to try and make this decision, it was too awake to go back to sleep. I closed the window, made myself a large mug of coffee and sat down on the couch. I’d taken into account that Oliver would leave his mark on my apartment in some way, but I hadn’t expected it to be like this. Was I living in an airport terminal? The place was full. I’d caught myself bringing home books I knew for a fact I had somewhere already. It wasn’t a well-tended collection. The single glass was already getting cold and fogging up on the inside, and the mildew in the bathroom was just mildew. I stretched my legs out on the couch and pulled my laptop into my lap. Most masterpieces were written from a place of misery, right? I was perfectly positioned.

Oliver didn’t call me that day. He didn’t text, didn’t email, didn’t show up unannounced on Friday. On Saturday I realized we weren’t like brothers; we weren’t able to recover from a spat like that and call it water under the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things. I'm SO sorry this took so long. To clear things up, this story is not on hiatus and I'm definitely not abandoning it. I just needed to get over this hurdle which brings me to the second part of the couple of things: the hurdle turned out to be the length of the chapter. This one feels a little (a lottle) like a turning point, and points are generally quite compact. Expect longer chapters and (hopefully) a quicker update!

**Author's Note:**

> Source for explanation of Erato: http://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/MousaErato.html
> 
> I've been compiling a playlist while writing, I'll be adding to it in the future!. You can listen to it here: https://spoti.fi/2yBmK43


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